Long Mislaid Poems
Long Mislaid Poems. Below are the most popular long Mislaid by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Mislaid poems by poem length and keyword.
Helplessness seeks help in despondency
When resources slip out of porous hands
A tacit realization of innate inadequacy
Devours the dregs of impaired self-esteem.
The feeling sinks in the pool of pale psyche
Averse however to breathe the air of truth
Lies there unfelt in suspended animation
A state assiduously unaccepted by the mind.
The hostile wrecking winds are thwarted
By the helping hands morphing into shield
The needs are quenched like the arid thirst
By the cloud burst of benign magnanimity.
Time turns to flow in the course so desired
The legs that couldn’t walk a foot forward
If and whenever the hands are left unheld
Become boat sailing smooth in waveless sea.
Tides of time inundate the changed ethics
Latent self-respect floats on flood of sense
The bruised mind gets busy digging channel
For the repulsive memory to flow to oblivion.
The meagerness that created helplessness
Turns to debased maze of inferiority complex
A psychic makeover wangled by innate reflex
Produces odium and derision for the helper.
The helper then wonders in state of conundrum
If unvalued effort and dented intent are mislaid
On the ungrateful and the undeserving of help
For helplessness helps breed contempt in the end.
July 21, 2021
Contest : Word Play Poems With Play-On-Words Raison D'etre
Sponsor : John Anderson
The Ghost Train
North Wind, it was a howling, the sky was black as guilt
Malevolent the sheen, where upon her moonbeams spilt
Through the murky distance, her belly glowing bright
Roaring down the line, she was roaring down the line
Charging down the line, the Ghost Train rolls tonight
She glides along the platform, where haunted faces wait
With dreams of grand ambition, that only she can slate
The driver in his blood red suit, turns a skeletal grin
Toward the hungry hopefuls, then ushers each one in
From store to fire, his actions deft
The fireman twisting on his plate
Stokes the engine right to left
He fuels the fire of fate
He mutters and stutters, “We can’t be late”
For time is money and money won’t wait
With shovels full of human desire
He fuels the fire of hate
The whistle cord is pulled, the flag flutters all clear
The engine she is plied, starts the journey into fear
On it goes a rumbling,
On it’s round iron feet
Inside the folk are tumbling
From every leathered seat
Amid the laughter and the chants
What life, what love, what times
Everyone is held entranced
By ghostly railway lines
Tittle tattle chatter, ash from the chimney pours
Natter rattle clatter, onward the Ghost Train roars
Strange games are played
Some win some lose
Sincere thank you’s become mislaid
As each the other use
Beneath the load the earth she quakes
As all aboard debauch
Done deals and shady handshakes
On every carriage porch
Kerching-kerching-kerching, the till bell rings
More-more-more, the engine softly sings
From store to fire, his actions deft
The fireman twisting on his plate
Stokes the engine, right to left
He fuels the fire of fate
He mutters and stutters, “we can’t be late”
For power is waiting and power is great
With shovels full of human remains
He fuels the fire of hate
In never ending search, she roams across the land
Controlled by the evil, of the blood red suited hand
Through the murky distance, her belly glowing bright
Charging down the line, the Ghost train rolls tonight
If it pulls into your station
Will you jump upon its frame?
Will you lose all inhibition?
On your way to wealth and fame
For when the ride is done
There’s no-one else to blame
If you find you become
Another furnace flame.
When social upheaval brews chaos of nihilism,
Forfeiting moral values, embracing skepticism;
Instability ensues, clamoring in emptiness,
Believing world is futile, life is meaningless,
As broken norms shout, voicing nothingness
From souls alienated by misplaced intellect,
Mislaid by thoughts, vacuous and mindless.
Barren is the landscape of infertile minds
Dislocated in grip of meltdown and melancholy,
Preferring to host anarchy, disharmony,
Abandoning the virtues of reason, and logic,
Rejecting bliss and benevolence of empathy,
As gloomy clouds of disengagements form
Roiling hearts in intense emotional storms.
When disorder harbors indignity, incivility,
Misery and despair lead to destructive society,
As lost, worn-out souls wander unfulfilled,
Rudderless, in angst of hollowness within,
Aching for love-lost in fractured relationships
Navigating purposeless-digressions adrift,
Going nowhere, hovering over pit of abyss;
Until from consciousness cogent voice speaks,
Enlightened by guidance of wisdom satori,
Harkening back to yore, of inspiring dawns,
Blossoming-seasons of resplendent bygones,
Reminding~ back then, how tranquil life was;
Empowering now to banish reign of anomie,
Exiting tenebrous clouds, shrouding sanity,
Traversing back to abode of grace and unity,
With compass-benevolent of love, and divinity.
Do as you like do as you may,
revealing consequences held at bay.
Long breath of words repeated until true,
fact or fiction, there is no clue.
Depth of deception so deep,
spoken by ghouls claiming innocence.
Barefaced cruelty spawning death and despair,
decency mislaid, exchanged for a doctrinaire.
Men and women at the head of these Serpentes,
above all laws for these blamable bourgeoisie.
As always the day of reckoning will finally come
where all poisonous vipers will be denounced.
Things will be Announced!
The canvas waits beneath a tempered blade.
A pale silver knife, not forged for war, I wield.
I paint the silence that the wounds betrayed.
The sky lies torn in strokes of celeste shade,
each slash more raw, no truth left unrevealed—
the canvas waits beneath a tempered blade.
No brush can bruise the dark the way I’ve flayed
these hues loose, their former grace repealed.
I paint the silence that the wounds betrayed.
My muse—half shadow, half cascade—
emerges from each mark I will not shield.
The canvas waits beneath a tempered blade.
No line stays; no form can be obeyed.
I seek what's felt, not what can be concealed.
I paint the silence that the wounds betrayed.
She stares back now, the shape that art mislaid—
a scar turned sycamore across the field.
The canvas waits beneath a tempered blade.
I paint the silence that the wounds betrayed.
Missing: God Incarnate
By Mark D. Stucky
Last month I lost Jesus.
Maybe he is not lost,
but I cannot find him
even in usual places.
I couldn’t find him in my prayers.
I couldn’t find him in my church.
I couldn’t find him in the hymnal.
I couldn’t find him in the Bible.
If I mislaid keys, you’d ask,
“Where did you put them last?”
I am not sure where I put Christ last.
Even if I knew, would he be there still?
Or would he have simply wandered off?
Maybe to watch over a falling sparrow,
or to catch fish while strolling across a lake,
or to salvage another stray sinner like me?
Should I nail a “Missing” sign
next to a lost cat poster?
Or maybe offer a reward
on the side of milk cartons?
I hope I find him soon.
I’m feeling lost myself.
(First published in Spirit Fire Review, October 2023. See also my poems “Salvation in an App Store” and “God’s on Mute.”)
(Image by Monica Rodriguez on Pixabay.com.)
The cosmos keeps misplacing you in my sky,
A planet too near, yet forbidden to collide.
Our paths redraw like stubborn lines,
Sacred geometry, cruel design —
Close enough to burn, too bound to defy.
We split one song through borrowed wire,
Two pulses climbing the same burning fire.
Your shoulder brushed the edge of mine,
And silence swelled like holy wine —
A hymn restrained by higher choir.
Years pass; the ink refuses to fade,
A letter sealed, a promise mislaid.
It sleeps like a blade beneath my bed,
Sharp with the words I never said —
A relic of vows we never made.
You stand in pews of different light,
I kneel where faith divides the night.
Yet still we trade our careful hellos,
While under our ribs a river flows —
An ark that aches but won’t take flight.
So we remain in measured spin,
Two orbits tight beneath the skin.
If speech were freed, we’d both give chase —
Undo the stars, abandon grace —
But gravity is God, and God won’t bend.
The silver light of moonbeams fades and fails,
Images stain upon the rainy glass,
With eyes clung tight, contours expressed exhales,
As specters of the past fade, sensed; surpass.
Sight seize the endless rain that hides the stars,
The silver light of moonbeams fades and fails,
Mirroring on a son's undying scars,
Yield passions rest, how quiet dark prevails.
Image redeems trace, erred in feign regales,
Worn life that mislaid trails affects connect,
The silver light of moonbeams fades and fails,
Tag tears on frozen face, as spilt reflect.
The metal frame swept stillness in the rain,
Felt emerald mist, kiss my mortal tales,
A shattered drive that held hope, now in pain,
The silver light of moonbeams fades and fails.
Silvery light returns on rainy streets,
Mundane routine focused itself a phase;
What's not in front must be some sad retreats,
The dream held out hope for a filled star craze.
Rustling gale, possessed by a world undone,
Silvery light returns on rainy streets.
Hoped the unromanced tired race was e'er run,
'Ere the essence touched its nethermost, soft beats.
A conundrum begs fogginess, blurred: fleets,
Stubborn frays are remembrance, now erased;
Silvery light returns on rainy streets.
As the known sporadic peace is embraced.
Wanted in stares; a serpentine ruin,
Burdensome lifted in the gentle spritz,
A recessed wisp brushed a soft undoing,
Silvery light returns on rainy streets.
The rain steady pours, washes dreams away,
An apparition recalls who they were,
A moistened looking-glass pictured the gray,
Some formless touch that 'ere was quite a blur;
The scent of allure mingles with the mist:
The rain steady pours, washes dreams away;
A fractured remembrance recants their wrist,
Then sudden silence ends a rainy day;
Impulsive glint, a horrendous blue night,
An abandoned chair; spirits choose to flee;
The rain steady pours, washes dreams away,
Rare last thought that leaves one wanting to be.
The serene sleep, knowing it can't proclaim,
Final thoughts, whispers, or end to display,
In parting, I'll say his beloved name,
The rain steady pours, washes dreams away.
The Fifties
3/3/2019
Miracle Man
I grew up in a period before morals were mislaid,
A time when word and a handshake mattered,
And you could take it to the bank.
As a society we've changed into the likes of chattering squirrels,
Arguing over the last nut to fall,
And today It requires a gaggle of lawyers.
Technology has quietly pilfered our individuality,
and our personal interaction with others has been replaced
By some smart, mobile device.
Politicians can't agree on anything,
Their mission statement seems to be,
Even if it's good, I won't like it.
It was a Wednesday;
a day woven
into prison blankets and dish towels.
A day to assess hours unnoticed.
A time of trivial hungers.
The hard heft of earlier times: -
not fitting into anything,
teenage fluff and huff. Heartbreak,
rearing and loss. The fallow traipse of age.
The clinical clunk of clay feet.
Making room in a grave-yard moon,
for faces mislaid.
Those hard rows were all well hoed.
Washing a closed face in a misty mirror.
Listening to the coffee percolator.
trying to shave before its last burble,
ears catching the dark drops of a winter rain,
he creeps again too close
to a hole in his mind.
He should not be doing this still,
but the hole keeps tugging him.
He must keep throwing raw meat
into that roaring silence.
The hole is deep, and the end of it, is no end.
He wishes he could at least,
install an elevator.
for his ghosts to ride up and down on.
It would give him time
to drink more coffee, and write
some polite, well-adjusted poetry.