Long Miscellaneous Poems
Long Miscellaneous Poems. Below are the most popular long Miscellaneous by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Miscellaneous poems by poem length and keyword.
FEAR
Fear
it's a picture
unfocused...
LOVE
Love,
a picture
alive
colorful...
PASSION
Passion,
it's a weapon
dangerous,
and confused...
HATRED
Hatred,
it's a fire
mortal,
infernal...
DOUBT
No doubt
it's a ticket,
unnoticed landscape...
LUCK
something simple
that easily
doesn't happen...
SONG
Song,
it is a dream
sung or
touched...
I approached the familiar chair,
And sat, breathing out the stress of the day.
Looking around, familiar faces with almost-remembered names
Flashing back and forth on the TV.
In my hand is just water,
But it feels like a tell.
I sit, all my possessions within reach.
Everything that makes me what I thought was
Unique
Fearless
Strong
Is hidden behind my leg.
Embarrassment and shame engulfs me again.
Another hotel lobby, because no bed welcomes me.
A bag filled with donated miscellaneous mystery meat
Cans I bow down for, gratitude for something
For something someone found.
From Easter, or Christmas, 15-20-30 years past.
No good for people,
To the homeless it's passed.
The chair is familiar.
It is the chair I sat in when I realised -
Pity is not low enough,
Disgust is not deep enough.
You know how you feel when you see them.
Sat outside because no one welcomes us in.
We can't have a child.
It's not a matter of want,
of belief,
of opinion.
We cannot.
Every doctor says, my wife will die.
The child might live, or might not,
but the love of my life will not,
not a guess, not a chance.
Just a death.
You can give your life, for another's.
Your death can stop one more,
if you're a cop, a soldier,
a hero, a nobody.
But we can't make you do it.
There is no law for that.
If a soldier lays down his life,
he is awarded, praised,
if he doesn't, he is not punished.
Not imprisoned for living.
So why would my wife trade, at best,
her life for one she will never meet?
Why would I trade my love's life
for a roll of the dice on another?
Why should we be forced to?
For a heartbeat, a whisper of a breath,
that may never make it out of the womb?
For a bitter, beaten man to live alone
or with the child who reminds him of loss?
Why should anyone else get to say?
Why should anyone else get a choice,
even if such weren't true?
Why should you get to choose
that she bear still heart, again and again?
To satisfy your hope, not hers?
Why should you get to speak,
if a woman has no voice?
If she has no money for a child,
no wish to birth her abuser's spawn?
To please your god, not hers?
Why should you get to decide,
why should you get the last word?
On any life that isn't your own,
any consequence not yours to bear?
To save an unborn life, not hers?
You should not.
It is not your choice, not your life,
not your grief, your sorrow,
your freedom or your death.
It is only, your opinion.
There is no right to such thoughts, only control.
Gather your countdowns to a week,
your milestones and your markers,
your intentions for the lives of strangers.
Burn them, turn such vile filth into ash.
Women owe society no life.
No attempt at a child, no health,
no life wasted, in death or in despair,
just for a chance at someone else's hope.
Someone else's decision.
Why should a fetus be sacred,
when the life, voice and sanctity
of the woman it could become -
so clearly mean nothing to you?
Ten.
Ten years, I've been scared,
fearing the phone's ring.
Twenty.
Twenty years, I was,
learning how goodbye really felt.
Thirty.
Thirty years, I reached,
forty-four days ago.
Forty.
Forty, my brother was,
for fifty-seven days.
That's all he got...
and that feels like all for me.
I'm terrified, I'll admit.
Every knock on the door,
every surprise text or call,
every "hey" I wasn't expecting.
Each corner hides a death,
each day a loss on the table,
Russian Roulette be damned.
The calendar is loaded - play.
So don't call me strong.
I'm petrified, and I'll face the grief,
as I always have,
but I won't face you.
I'm running, without shame,
from contact, from laughter,
from making me feel.
My response, proudly, is to hide.
So call me what you will -
save strong.
That just reminds me -
that I have received no choice.
Thirty-three percent.
A third of my life -
looking over my shoulder.
Which do I run out of first -
fortitude, or friends?
The calendar is loaded...
no choice but to play.
Tonight you step outside.
Out where the fireflies alight
on unseen eddies of air;
out to where the stars lend their light
and a breeze caresses your hair.
You sit on the step and you wonder
how a time so dark ever seems so bright;
you drift in reverie and you ponder
just where our souls go at night.
Not while your dreams take flight
behind eyes closed and blankets warm;
but while your sleep loses the fight
to the muse's ceaseless storm.
Where do our spirits flee to
when the sun is long out of sight;
why does rumination find its cue
after most have said goodnight?
Why does this hour make thoughts unite
and scrutiny of life reach full speed;
why is it so much easier to feel and write
when the moon from its daily chains is freed?
Sometimes Earth's peace dreams
feel unreachable,
ever,
for anyone,
Including our unhealthy enemies
and aggressive aliens
and militarized terrorists
and anxious sociopaths
and despairing criminals
and miscellaneous Others
LeftBrain wounded
patriarchal-capitalist nervous
monoculturing heartless minds
of unwoke monotheistic unconsciousness,
like my own
Mundanely unaware
of how ticked off we are
about giving up
on our unreachable panentheistic
nature-spirited dream
Reclaiming EarthTribe's indigenous
pantheistic empowered
enlightening calm
inviting EarthTribal
non-anthro-exceptional
universal polycultural
communal
nutritional
healthy wealth of kindness.
What we felt was spontaneous
feelings easy to navigate,
other thoughts were extraneous
fixation or not love won't wait.
Lost in the portal of our eyes
what we felt was spontaneous,
as tangible as starry skies
its intrigue consentaneous.
Doubts were but momentaneous
for we'd shared a revelation,
what we felt was spontaneous
our hearts needed no translation.
There was no need to verbalize
sweet words were miscellaneous
we had no wish to patronize
what we felt was spontaneous.
(Quatern)
01/20/2020
Eight word challenge 1 2020 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: John Hamilton
Broken pieces of our shattered lives
Are packed away and forgotten
Like unwanted items in the attic
Hidden inside a box that
Holds the crushed dreams
And un-kept promises
Of more hopeful times
Near the torn bag of trust
And the other miscellaneous emotions
Which once held meaning in our lives
How convenient to hideaway our mistakes and bad choices
Or to stow away the things that once gave us joy,
But now only collect dust on a shelf.
We live by the rule out of sight out of mind,
More willing to discard than retain,
Easier to forget than to feel pain
Only to one day realize
There is no more room to store those unwanted memories
And we are force to go through them
And remind ourselves
Of who we once were.
Form:
Development laps at emaciated canvas
Exponential images whisper a thousand words
Chemical dip shifts generic into candid
Graphic effigy given vigour by a brief submerge
Slippery minutes expand sqare memoir
Retrieved from squalid pool, jumped illustrious
Pregnant with wisdom from an embalm
Faith puts detail on paper basic miscellaneous
Source of light firms fine composition
Blankness bask enables solid ice to effervesce
Supernatural Spirit delivered christens
Fermented parchment finds miracles manifest
15th February
Philosophic Rearrangement
Attributed To Concerned parents
of Traumatized Refugee
Dear Fred and Mary Anne MacLeod Trump...
Posthumous belated tattered letter fragment
recently discovered (liberally sprinkled with
hyperbole (presumed for greater audacious
zealousness), sans accidentally acquired
by yours truly.
Miscellaneous personal item highly valued
when thwarted from auctioneer, whose gently
persuasion collectible merchandise requisitioned,
thence keepsake property perfunctory mandatorily forfeited.
Due compensation from sole male heir (me),
whose long since (resting in eternal
peace) papa suffered degradation,
humiliation and understandable lamentation
as a kid living in Flatbush.
Authorities and expert legal scholars
pieced together what probably comprised
a lengthy epistle rivaling the Epic of
Gilgamesh).
Recollection recounted torturous,
malicious, and flagitious mean spiritedness
visited upon the ambitious, cadaverous, and
timorous body electric high-jinxed introverted male,
whose abstemious, conscientious, and nutritious
dietary regime, could not forestall rigor mortis.
A postscript (purportedly penned prior to
once philosophical pensive poet's papa's passing)
stated that said personage felt bitterness,
disharmonious envious self loathing.
That grownup man known as mine father,
though once upon a time, said recently
anonymous deceased old fogey ironically
registered as an atrocious, cantankerous,
and egregious deplorable high school student.
Also, the author of what constitutes partial
opprobrious litany attests during his
idolatrous, notorious, and semiconscious
Arab zombie school daze.