Long Never Poems
Long Never Poems. Below are the most popular long Never by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Never poems by poem length and keyword.
When Iceland rose majestically,
A volcanic isle, born of the sea.
This land, that continents divide,
A place where fire and ice reside
And Norsemens sagas, too were born.
Goddess Aurora, brings the dawn,
Thor is thunder, God of war,
Odin seeks wisdom it's folklore.
A pagan faith forever blind,
Nature is savage,sometimes kind.
Those cold North winds began to blow,
And wintertime delivers snow.
An idyll village by a stream,
Resplendent in a poet's dream.
Aurora dances through the night,
Fantastic bands of coloured light.
A blizzard came, the snow lay deep,
The mountain slope began to creep,
With noise like thunder from a gun,
An avalanche was on the run.
A mighty force, it's rushing sound,
Engulfing everything around.
The village now is buried deep,
For rescuers , no time to weep.
Where do they search beneath the snow,
No landmarks; so, how do they know?
Nature has shown her savage face,
This avalanche, her fall from grace.
The year was nineteen ninety five,
And twenty souls they did survive.
For twenty more eternal peace,
Oh! When will nature ever cease?
Is this the price they had to pay?
To live in fear another day.
On land and sea, just as before,
Mankind and nature, still at war.
As ancient runes, inscriptions tell,
This land where both can never dwell.
As legends say in every tale,
This constant struggle to prevail.
When man holds out an olive branch,
Nature, becomes an avalanche.
2/ 21/ 2015.
They are strong and well-made men,
Designed to be finishers and not quitters.
Presently, two such men permeate my mind;
Men of strong character and high principles.
Two Henrys attended a small country church.
One Henry was a farmer; the other a pastor.
Henry the farmer died in 1996; the other is 85
And will soon be retiring after pastoring 42 years.
Were Henry the farmer still alive, he would be 113.
I fondly remember some 50 years ago, I had neither father, uncle,
nor close friend; but at his home along a country road surrounded by
fields of cotton, corn, and beans, Henry the farmer and I sat and talked
for hours on many Saturday afternoons. He and his wife Alice were
hard workers, raising 14 boys and girls in addition to raising cotton,
corn, beans, chickens, cows, pigs, sugar cane, and bountiful gardens.
Henry the pastor also worked hard building churches, leading people,
teaching, preaching, marrying couples, dedicating babies, baptizing,
Dispensing knowledge, wisdom, and inspiration. We never talked a lot,
but I've listened to lots of wisdom flowing from his fine sermons.
Neither Henry understood the meaning of the word 'quit'. In a word,
from Henry the farmer, I learned the meaning of the word, 'ENDURANCE'.
In a word, from Henry the pastor, I learned the meaning of the word, 'ENDURANCE'.
I remember the days of yore.
Entering my house, out came my knight,
my sable-coloured spaniel.
Licking my face, giving me great delight.
He jumped up and down with joy
and I’ll never forget the smell
of my lovely lively dog freshly washed.
He was so glad; my pride would swell.
Mother would come to search for me,
a hug, a kiss and always a blessing.
The smell of Bouillabaisse Soup,
impregnated the house and her dress.
How I loved the smell of my mother’s cooking
when I came home from school.
It would not take me long to wash my hands
and at table expectantly sit at my stool.
Dad would come later, chewing his cigar.
I got used to the smell though I never tried one.
And after our short repast we would depart
to play a game or laugh as him I outrun.
Everything welcomed me home.
A final drink of camomile in my favourite mug,
Thus, at night I would sleep tightly,
the smell of clean sheets so cosy and snug.
Alas time went on and I grew up
got a job and met my love.
Now we live in our brand new house,
but it smells differently.
Like the air freshener that wafts above.
It can’t be helped. My parents died and
so did my spaniel. Time has its laws
Life changes all but
I’ll never forget how warm my old home was.
Dead leaves dance in the wind and embrace
As it takes them to a recent place
Their beauty is in decay, yet still alive
A reminder that all things must thrive.
The last flower of the season stands alone
Withered and fading, its beauty is now gone
But its vibrant colors remain in my memory
A symbol of life's fleeting energy.
The trees shed their leaves, one by one
As they prepare for a season undone
But their naked branches reach up high
A testament to the strength that never dies.
The world around us may acerbate and evolve
But life's cycle continues to revolve
From birth to growth to death and decay
A constant reminder to live each day.
So let the wind carry you wherever it may
Embrace the beauty in every decay
Even in death, there is still life
A reminder to cherish every moment and every strife.
Each day I find life gets more upsetting
because too often I keep forgetting
the names of loved ones I should remember.
They shouldn't fade like a dying ember,
so I talk to them instead of fretting.
Sometimes I offer them a pot of tea
to show I'm grateful for their company.
"Would you like a scone?" I asked my friend, Kay.
"Yes, Mary. You've outdone yourself today."
Times passes quickly when she's here with me.
I know they're all gone, my used-to-be friends.
Doing all the talking has dividends...
I never have to say, 'good night" or "bye."
No tears as they're leaving to make me cry.
You see, our conversation never ends.
In the daylight, at the window I sit,
passing time with yarn and needles, I knit.
I pretend my old friends are with me here,
letting me bend their interested ear.
I'm not senile; but I have a keen wit.
Everything that can hurt
is chronic in an old body.
An arrow through the heart is acute,
a bullet in the knee is an in-the-moment pain
that lasts a lifetime,
however, a chronic chronicity is the real killer.
She had had enough. Windows held nothing for her.
Food tasted like burnt paper,
breathing a grating torture.
She once knew a lovely lake,
one she had swam upon as free as a fish.
A lover or would-be lover
waved her to come ashore
but she would linger in the lake
letting the waters caress her in parts that
hands could never reach.
It takes forever just to rise and sit at the edge of the bed,
Bones rasp on bones, hot wires thread joints.
At last she looks over the side of the mattress
into that blue clear lake again.
She could dive now, she thinks,
dive headlong, swan dive
and never return to the surface.
In that moment, a mercy arrives;
a dragging grudge of infirmity
becomes a soul-deep-daggering,
swampy tumors long moldering
in the indolent mouth of a remorseless beast
burst into devouring bonfires
flares that ram her into the unbearable.
With a scream of joy she dives weightless
into sweet and obliviating waters
shedding years of drought,
and far from the maul and clank
of indifferent time.
~~~~~
Oxygen
I’m breathing oxygen into my bones.
How can I help myself, when I cannot love alone?
Bubbles flow through every wire;
Micro-bubbles flow through every vein.
I need to breathe your love into my heart,
So I can feel alive once again.
Broken thoughts wait to be repaired
And understood,
Until they appear in your view.
Waiting on a memory to come into focus;
Do I whisper or shout a prayer?
I would make my destiny appear to be in my hands,
If I only knew…
All I see are random images.
Random pictures, random memories,
Written down like a crossword clue;
I breathe out my thoughts, as I breathe in you.
A wish to improve us in this moment in time;
I’m breathing in oxygen. I’m breathing out life.
I’m just breathing oxygen;
I’m breathing oxygen…
Still searching for new memories, I hope I am still alive in your eyes.
Chasing my future, when I am so weak; I have never seen my optimum.
I’m breathing life into my day; I’m floating into the light.
Up through the water currents, I am rising with the sea;
My heads bursts through the barrier and I can, at last, breathe.
If breathing is all that I can do,
Then I will breathe for you too, if you need me to.
If love is all that I can give,
Then I hope my love helps you to once more breathe.
Let me breathe into you the oxygen you need,
To love this life that we live.
(C)2017 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
I will tell you when they met:
in the burnished flush of autumn,
when each rising of the sun
turned each golden leaf more golden.
With the trees and fields aflame,
so the scholar's heart was stolen
by that blushing, bold nymphet,
In the burnished flush of autumn.
I will tell you when they parted:
in the middle of the winter,
when each slicing of the moonlight
filled her heart with thawless splinters.
With the trees and fields laid bare,
and each footpath silent, silver,
so they lost each other's shadow
in the middle of the winter.
When shall they meet again?
I cannot say for certain.
Their lives have grown divergently,
through seasons sparse and verdant.
To meet again beneath those trees;
more tempting than the serpent,
but such temptation never fades,
that much, I'd say, is certain.
Inspired by 'One Day' by Christina Rossetti.
payo = a non-gypsy man gitanas = gypsy girls
coplas = traditional Spanish musical form
For my fingers, bands of gold,
for my whims, bank notes untold.
For my curves, embroidered tresses,
woven shawls and silken dresses.
The moon always keeps a loving vigil over me.
The moon always weeps to see what's become of me.
My payo is as smitten as a spinster with a kitten,
puts more riches in my hand than a sultan could command.
Stare, gitanas, stare! You are envious of me.
Glare, gitanas, glare! I can't help your jealousy.
Play, gitanas, play, you've no idea what you do.
Sway, gitanas, sway! It is I that envy you.
Maria de la O, with your man-enticing curls,
you're the only one who knows you're a wretched gypsy girl.
I've got everything I need, yet forgotten how to laugh.
I somehow missed the seed when I filled my hands with chaff.
His waist was as slender as a young water poplar
I longed to surrender when dancing the coplas.
Ugly money, dirty silver, I've a thirst you'll never slake.
I was dearly loved in Huelva, but I spurned him for your sake.
Maria, shoulder your cross!
You can't leave the path you trod.
You must struggle with your loss,
punished by God, punished by God.
Maria de la O - Traditional Spanish ballad
Singer - Marife de Triana
I am Dead to You
by, Martin Braun 6/5/2020
You raise your hand for unity,
and curse those who don’t go your way.
You shout all kinds of profanity,
and throw stones and curse the day.
You cry out for the injustices done,
and run from the cops that you betray.
You curse the world for its disparity
while burning down the stores owned by your dad and mom away.
"You are dead to me!"
"You are dead to me!"
You cry out to the world that you burn.
"You are dead to me!"
"You are dead to me!"
My sons and daughters, in school, what have you learned?
You wear masks of black to hide your identity
And pride yourself on the courage of your shame.
You carry flags from hostile foreign countries
your fathers died to defeat so tyranny won’t remain.
You are paid and taught by foreign entities
Who curse this country for its prosperity and its fame.
You curse their curse and curse your friends
claiming nothing can and never will be the same.
"You are dead to me!"
"You are dead to me!"
You cry out to the world that you burn.
"You are dead to me!"
"You are dead to me!"
My sons and daughters, in school, what have you learned?
"Nothing... I learned, nothing," is your response.