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Long Myth Poems

Long Myth Poems. Below are the most popular long Myth by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Myth poems by poem length and keyword.

I reached into the depth...
But could not withdraw Excalibur from the stone.
Yet I knew I was the one.
Why else my 'Grail Vision' in the sun?
The depths call me to reach further still.
And Mary's eyes bled.
Realizing for whom the tear's shed.

I know not what to do.
Vainity reaching to withdraw from the glue.
I stare blindly in the distance a 'bust' of my former self.
Passing the secret of excalibur being drawn by someone else.

And passing by the oracle of Ephesus, Medusa's eyes
She drew the sword stone in deep catching my contemplations of the mirror.
I could loose myself in her forever.
Secret Sweets. Stained Sheets. and shaking cold she wraps me in the golden fleece.
Covered in snakes, I melt into the secret skin.
Learning the name, I see my fathers before me distrought.
And see now the blindness of the Kingdom Oedipus wrought.
Sophoclese Tragedies and I am forever Oedipus.
Betrayed blessin' between whorish thighs and my camarades' lies.
Where is Helena these days?
Gone so long, I've forgotten her ways.

That's the trick-she sucks in your depth.
I am Horus, my seeds sewn in the west.
Innana's dead. I broke my maiden-named womb.
Long ago I allocated multiversic kingdoms for Osiris' perversion tombs.

And in the mysteries of deep misery.
I have witnessed my seed coming of age.
To lay thoughts like these out on a page.
Christ, Annubis, and I planned this on a street in Greece, A.D., B.C. I can't remember which.
I bare down frost-bitten from the North.
And my Christ of peace bore symbols from the East.
Our dog-eared down-home friend brought simpler lessons from an outdated South.
And we witnessed our births spread out over time.
Three wise men we were singing dark-hearted songs of a blackened Madonna we couldn't find.
So we relinquished ourselves to Daddy Darkest who knew best.
Redistributed seeds, we pushed ourselves to a static line beyond myth; where men like us no longer needed to exist.

Sweet Virgin, Return
I am old and worn thin.
Now, is your time to begin; A collection of stories your heart has borne, but you lay unblemished.
My daughter lay our bones to rest.
Cook them in your stew.
Reigns handover long overdue, but that's not the style you do.
Don't worry about ole Paw. Jimmy Crack corn.
May you be Princess Disarming Charming laced with meaning...
And I awake sleeping...
Beauty, I next to you.

faithfatherpeacememe

Form: Free verse

Somebodys Child

“I am somebody’s child, and I need attention, I am somebody’s child and I need affection, I am somebody’s child and I need love and devotion”, she murmured as she walked through the door. She wasn’t sure where she was going when she left the house; she wasn’t sure about the next encounter, but she walked for five hours until she reaches the border.

The speed, at which she moved, left everyone confused but she was determined to make a point just to stay alive. She did not plan a journey she just wanted to live, and hang out with the daffodils but the trap was already set before they made the bet. She could sense it from within and so she had to learn to swim; with strength in her arms and strides in her feet, she made it through the dark before the break of dawn.

They searched everywhere for her, but they could not find her, the public became aware of it and they start to build a myth. Officer Jones devised a plan to begin the search mission he knew what he had up his sleeve, because he was so hard to please. He had laid the ground work to start digging up dirt, to catch the big fish and throw them back into the ditch, the climate was right and the alibi was riding high in the sky.

The search went on for days with no sight of her abducted in the bush or held captive by the brook; it was just one of those situations where you have to keep on top of things before the universe done you in.

The cheese, and the pie, the crown and the dye were just too reveling so they had to search for another meaning, and the sky was their only hope to keep sailing on the boat and so the narrative changed to give her all the blame.

Was it a crime torn area or someone lost their way and bumped into a criminal flattering in the sky that is a one-hundred-dollar question from a village miner who could not fit the pieces together for the director or the operator.

And so, the question remains, whose back was she trying to cover? My mind wander and wander and it didn’t look like a deal that turned sour, neither was it a set up by gate to discover something before it was too late. Everything seems to be in perfect harmony with the guitar, the piano, the band and the musical director.

The great Gatsby would have won the case if Tom Buchanan had not shot him in the pool over the death of Myrtle Wilson his darling wife. "I am somebody’s child," she screamed.

cinderellacorruptioncourageintegrityinternational

Form: Dramatic Monologue

Accidental Hero

The day Mitchell Malden became a hero
he had only meant to go for a drink,
paced slowly into Slimbed’s only saloon,
where he noticed an unpleasant stink.

He saw Delaney Hannigan at cards
and figured that explained the bad smell,
that rustler spent his days out in the bush,
scum like him never did come off well.

He only came to town to spend stolen loot,
and for some reason the man liked to play,
Mitch himself could not understand why,
the fool just lost all his cash in the games.

So Mitch ignored him, enjoyed his drink,
tasted fine after a day running cows,
then came a loud roar, and angry howl:
“You damned cheats, throw those guns down right now!”

The poker table then crashed, upended,
Mitch look back, saw Delaney with a gun,
“I’m tired of this bar stealing my coin,
so y’all put your hands up, everyone!”

For a moment nobody dared a move,
Al knew Delany was the type to kill,
Nobody else had a pistol drawn
So they coolly acquiesced to his will.

Delaney stalked closer, saw Mitch’s old colt,
said,”Listen close and you’ll suffer no harm.
You take that iron out of that gunbelt
and you lay it down real nice on the bar.”

Mitchel did what the bandit desired,
there was no other way he could figure,
but Mitch’s hand shook, and when he put it down
his finger brushed back against the trigger.

The gun fired as it touched the bar-top,
the slug pierced Delaney’s big forehead,
he pitched backwards, the folks looking on,
when he hit the ground he was stone dead.

A moment of stunned silence fell on them,
then came a storn of folk shaking his hand.
“Making that cool think you would go alone…
Now that there’s the play of a clever man!”

Mitch was stunned, but he said not a word,
just let the procession bring him to the street,
soon all of the town knew of his brave deed
and heralded this heroic feet.

The newspapers even picked up the tale,
earning Mitch a good measure of fame,
soon enough he found himself the mayor,
and got a pretty girl to take his name.

All though he was the smartest gunfighter,
and all his life he was a sensation,
the bar where this happened still stands today,
visited by folk across the whole nation.

It’s only I, his great-great-great grandson,
who knows the truth of what happened back then,
but who am I to tell it like it was
when everybody does so love the legend?

characterconflictgrandchildherohistory

Form: Cowboy Poetry

PS Male Poets: Six Years Later

6 years ago, I wrote limericks about 5 PS poets. Today, I've posted
about another 5 and will continue to add more...  before 6 years.

I tickled funny bones of five Souper men
So, I gave thought to trying it once again
In the order they replied
My sarcasm was applied
As I gently heckled them with ink and pen

First, Tom Cunningham, who "liked my collection"
To femme limericks he had no objection
But now it's his turn
Tom, forgive the burn
I heard you're headed for a house of correction

Jerry T Curtis said to "keep them coming"
But I think that lately he's been slumming
He's all aflutter
And starts to stutter
When his lady friend starts his heart strumming

Then there is the poet of romance, Tim Smith
His sweet words of seduction are not a myth
I know it to be truth
Don't ask me. It's uncouth
I don't kiss and tell so I'm pleading the fifth

John Gondolf said my limericks made him "chuckle"
His comments are always filled with honeysuckle
But if he wants a date
I'll have to castigate
I have a black belt in the use of my knuckles

"I needed smiles and giggles," said Greg Barden
His poems are flowers blooming in a garden
But some words are couture
Fertilized with manure
Now I guess I'll have to beg for Greg's pardon

The new additions...

Like a brother he comes to my defense
This man wears no guise and has no pretense
Mark Koplin, misunderstood
A modern-day Robin Hood
To me he shines with rays of effulgence

There's a man who took me under his wing
Says what he thinks. Doesn't hold back a thing
Danny Turner, my friend
A helping hand he'll lend
For offering kind words, he's a wellspring

David Kavanagh, true friend from the start
Encouraging advice, he does impart
Throws Monoku lines like spears
I raise a glass to him ~ cheers!
Loyal, his word. A man with a good heart

Canadian, Vaso, we don't see oft
Art doesn't come across as being soft
But has a tender heart
For countries torn apart
His poetic words should never be scoffed

His funny thoughts overflow in a Flood
Terry writes humor that's never a dud
Risque, and sometimes not
His stories have a plot
Rumor has it that he's known as 'The Stud'

Gentlemen, I ask forgiveness for this spoof
My humorous parodies should be the proof
That I like all of you
And don't mind if ya do
Get even in your own limericks of reproof

how i feelhumorousmen

Form: Limerick

In the twilight of existence, where shadows whisper secrets to the restless soul

In the twilight of existence, where shadows whisper secrets to the restless soul,
Man seeks to escape himself in myth, weaving tales to hide his truth,
By any means at his disposal, he dances on the edge of oblivion,
Drugs, alcohol, or lies, each a mask to hide the fragile self within.
Unable to withdraw into the depths of his being, he disguises himself,
Crafting stories and illusions, each a fleeting sanctuary from the storm,
Lies and inaccuracies, like gentle lullabies, give him a few moments of comfort,
In the flux of consciousness, where thoughts flow and ebb like an eternal tide.
In this river of dreams, I see him, a wanderer lost in the labyrinth of his own mind,
Seeking solace in the myths he creates, a painter of unseen realities,
His heart, a canvas of longing, each stroke a metaphor for escape,
And I, a silent observer, am drawn into the melancholic magic of his journey.
He walks through the corridors of memory, each step a whisper of forgotten hopes,
The shadows of his past intertwine with the light of his aspirations,
In the depths of his despair, he finds an appearance of peace,
A fleeting mirage in the desert of his existence, where lies and truth converge.
In the darkened corners of his mind, the myths take on a life of their own,
Each a beacon of false hope, a star in the night of his solitude,
He clings to them, these fragile constructs, like a sailor to a sinking ship,
In the endless sea of his thoughts, where reality and illusion blend.
Through the haze of his deceptions, a fleeting clarity emerges,
A moment of truth, like a fleeting comet in the vastness of his mind,
He sees himself, unmasked and raw, a soul stripped of disguises,
And in that moment, the melancholic magic of existence reveals its true face.
But the moment passes, as all moments do, and he returns to his myths,
Comforted by the lies that shield him from the harsh light of reality,
In the flux of consciousness, where each thought is a wave in an endless ocean,
He finds solace, peace, in the myths that allow him to escape himself.
And so, in the twilight of existence, where shadows and light intertwine,
Man continues his dance, a seeker of myths, a creator of illusions,
In the melancholic magic of his journey, he finds the strength to endure,
A wanderer in the labyrinth of his own mind, forever searching for the elusive truth.

fantasy

Form: Free verse

Everyone Hates My Poetry




Everyone hates my poetry

Because it doesn’t wear makeup.

Because it stares too long,

or not long enough.

Because it mentions the body

like a room that remembers

every man who left his name in dust.



Because it’s too sad,

too loud,

too holy,

too raw—

because it does not ask permission

to bleed

where others would politely weep.



They say I should whisper.

I scream in stanzas instead.

Line breaks like broken bones —

each one healed wrong on purpose.

I rhyme “fxxk” with “forgiveness”

and call it a sacrament.

I flirt with ghosts.

I give grief a seat at the table.



I write what I can’t confess.

And then I press send.

And wait.

And wait.

And wait.



?



Go your own way, they say.

But I was never theirs to lose.

I won’t be your throat,

your mouth,

your Sunday-quiet muse.



Dance in the avalanche —

I’ll be drinking full-blooded wine.

You butter your toast,

I’ll bleed ink and call it divine.



I’m Dracula,

you’re limpets —

clinging to shores of should.

Sinister mercy monsters

with teeth made of wood.



You won’t take mine.

I’ve bartered them

for metaphor.

For myth.

For the kind of flame

that never asks to be understood.



I sit on a throne

shaped like an electric chair,

burning truth until

only the bones of beauty remain.



You?

You live in living rooms.

You collect pretty things.

I braid your betrayal

into a lei of lunacy —

my madness in bloom.



Say I’m too old.

Too female.

Too much.

There’s something in the water.



Damn right.

I am the water.

I merge with ocean light.

The moon kisses me goodnight.



Why do I need your approval to feel seen?

Must just be a throwback trauma dream.

Your eyes — not galaxies,

but black holes,

sucking the light from my becoming.



I offered constellations,

you brought collapse.

But still—

I orbit my own flame.

Still, I rise in ruin’s dress,

sequined with scars.



I chew the fat

with better men than you,

men who don’t flinch

when a woman burns through.

Men who sip my fury like wine,

and still

ask for another glass.



You?

You watered me down,

then called me “too much”

for the mess you made.



?



And still I write.

abuseartidentity

Form: Free verse

How Can We Not Have This Conversation

How can we not have this conversation
where footprints of the poor vanish
beneath the boots of investors, 
and the river sings only
to those who can afford its luxury? 

In Chobe, the elephants roam free, 
but people walk caged in poverty.
We call it coexistence
when tusks are protected, 
but mothers bury their sons
gored near neglected kraals.
And no one comes
unless it's a game drive
and the victim is not black.

How can we not speak
when the lion's roar is louder
than a widow's cry for compensation? 
When leopards eat goats
and ministries write reports not cheques? 

Let's talk about the five-star smiles
that greet foreign tongues
while the Batswana mop floors, serve beer, and sleep on concrete after ten-hour shifts.
Let's talk about uniforms and pay slips
that smell like servitude, 
contracts folded into silence
in offices lined with antelope heads.

And let's speak of the racism
how a Black woman was shot by a white woman
who said, "I thought it was a monkey."
As if her body was a silhouette of threat.
As if Blackness is always a blur
on the edge of someone else's comfort.
The river bore witness, but the law shrugged, 
and headlines softened the bullet.

Let's talk of fishermen
banished from their birthright, 
told their canoes spoil the view, 
that their laughter scares the tourists, 
that their presence is pollution.
Let's speak of lodge owners
who toss insults like breadcrumbs
to those who clean their sheets
lazy, slow, replaceable.
No chains, but contracts.
No slurs, just smiles
with knives beneath them.

We cannot be quiet
when the sun sets
behind lodges built on lies, 
and the river is fenced
not for safety, but exclusion.

How can we not speak
of the politics of permits, 
where land is leased
like livestock, 
and council seats are auctioned
to the highest foreign bidder? 
Corruption blooms like water hyacinth, 
choking life from the roots
of communal trust.

The sand knows.
The baobabs know.
Even the crocodiles know
how long we've swallowed
our own tongues
to protect the myth of peace.

So let us talk.
Let us gather in the heat
of midday truth, 
where no luxury air-con hums.
Let us speak until the sky listens, 
until justice stalks this land
as fiercely as the wild.

Because silence, here, 
is complicity.
And we have been quiet
for far too long.

communityconflictcorruptionfeelingsidentity

Form:

The Odyssey Redux Part I - From Trozan Shores To Aeolian Isle

Now gather around, ye lusty lads, a tale I'll tell to thee
Of jealous Gods, monsters and ill-fated men who sailed the sea.
My tale is set in hoary times when fickle fate was by divine decree.
Then men were men who faced all odds, much sturdier than you or me.

It was the time when the Trozans fell, King Priam's pride was turned to dust,
Odysseus' ruse of Trozan Horse, made him of the God's accursed;
For Apollo's faith was crushed by heel of Grecian fleet,
And rape and pillage,  with lust and greed, was rampant on the street

But fair Odysseus, with wanton fill, mindful of the weep and wail
With his Grecian hordes and a dozen ships to Ithaca did set sail
With hope-filled heart, with fair Penelope and Telemachus in mind
His course to fair Ithaca was charted and  well and truly defined.

But fate, I did say, was  most fickle-minded, and had deviously contrived
A fate which would try their grit and test how they fought, and survived.
And so the ships driven willy-nilly by the North Westers and South Easters
Drove them by predetermined chance to the Land of the Lotus Eaters.

The Lotus Eaters were a race which the world forgot in their drugged state
With food of the Nelumbo, of a species time forgot, but did their hunger sate,
And drugged their minds to exclusion of world, to family, and other  cares.
Odysseus , abstinent was he,, dragged them back on board, with crew unawares.

Thence post-haste did the ships set sail and sighted fair isle with fatted cattle,
Fair game for stocking provisions, but first a Titan Cyclops they had to battle.
Odysseus, full of guile knew that force would lead to hapless naught,
So crept he in, midst cattle din, and  there sleeping Polyphemus sought.

And there as the Cyclops soundly slept, blinded his eye, which was but one.
Polyphemus, Titan,  unbeknownst to Odysseus, was Poseidon's beloved son.
With prideful boast Ithacan King, in derision his name did daringly decree.
Wild with rage, and dreadful pain, did Polyphemus call his father from the sea.

Deeply hurt at deceit and guile by which the Grecians blinded his offspring,
Poseidon  did curse and said, " May stormy seas and whirly winds calamity bring"
So tossed about were the dozen ships, windblown and tossed on heaving seas.
With heavy heart and tired limb went they to Aeolus, the Wind God there to please.

~11 Jun 2016~

adventurefantasymythologydrug

Form: Epic

Time's Shadowy List

Contrary to popular myth, Einstein did NOT reject the existence of Time, but he did reject the differences of its elements, stating that "the distinction between past, present and future is only a stubbornly persistent illusion" ...


TIME ...

Is a phantom with many faces
It drifts, a blotchy mist from our early years
The cognizance of self-awareness like a patchwork quilt
Most memorable moments shining like warm sunlight
Mundane and everyday, a foggy swirl, as we slowly become ... ourselves
Memories splicing together like a movie in our mind ...
We learn and experience, as the images from memory clarify
All flowing like a rill to who and what and where we are
It is an invisible, ghostly yardstick
Chopped up into segments that we build actuality around
An ethereal inchworm, crawling at the pace we allow it
We watch it, breathless, wondering what branch it will take
What it will make or show of the now or then or later
It is beastly wraith that controls and objectifies all we do
We are powerless before it, yet we worship it with our every heartbeat
It is a monster in the dark
A horrid creature under the bed, waiting to grab our ankles
And pull us into the bleak, oily black of oblivion
It dances in the dark of night
Wearing the skin of our hopes, and the mask of our dreams
Laughing at promise like a mad moon laughs at the tides
It is a demon, immutable and brazen
The unchangeable mirror of our mistakes and pains and decisions
Thumbing its nose at our cold conscience
And yet, it is an angel, too
That carries on its wings the brightest of thoughts
The joys and loves and friendships that sustain us
Bright sparkles on the wave tops of what was, treasured and golden
And though we strain with all our might and marrow
We can never touch those many faces
For no sooner have we gazed on its visage than it has turned away
No sooner do we see it approach - smiling, waving, affirming
Than it has flashed by us in a swirl
It is our god and our devil
Our hope and our despair
Our villain and our lover
The keeper of our consciousness, moments and prospects
Our precise measure of what can NEVER be measured
And the universal spirit of existence
That will never, ever ... exist.





~ 1st Place ~  in the "Writing Challenge 3, July 2019 - List" Poetry Contest, Dear Heart, Judge & Sponsor.

analogymetaphortimewisdom

Form: List

Long Myth Poems

Puzzle Stomped

Ever Returning/Departing

Somebodys Child

Accidental Hero

PS Male Poets: Six Years Later

In the twilight of existence, where shadows whisper secrets to the restless soul

Everyone Hates My Poetry

How Can We Not Have This Conversation

The Odyssey Redux Part I - From Trozan Shores To Aeolian Isle

Time's Shadowy List

Member Area

Soup Social

Member Poems

Member Poets

Famous Poems

Famous Poets

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