Long Numbly Poems
Long Numbly Poems. Below are the most popular long Numbly by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Numbly poems by poem length and keyword.
Divine Intervention
Dear Dad…I plucked a crimson rose that lay
upon your grave, as icy rain fell down
and joined my warm, wet tears that winter day.
Unto my heart, I pressed it close to drown
my mournful thoughts and feelings deep inside.
And then I numbly made my way back home
to grieve and heal with loved ones by my side.
But soon they left, and I was all alone.
That night I placed the crimson rose within
a random place inside a book of prose,
and it pressed flat for quite some time therein.
One day I opened it to find I chose
the place that God directed me to lay
the rose in answer to my prayers of where
you were in death so that my heart could say
that everlasting life was yours to share.
What I had hoped I know for sure is true...
for words within the page where that rose slept,
"The Grave," by Robert Blair...bodes life anew;
in God’s eternal life our souls are kept.
My keepsake rested in a book of prose...
God’s intervention was my only guide.
Mid secret pages dried your crimson rose...
God’s answer to my prayer…with thanks, I cried.
September 16, 2014
~1st Place~
Contest: Avatar
Sponsor: Line Gauthier
Judged: 12/16/2017
“Send me a pic,” he sent with a smile,
“Share what you’re hiding away.
You’re a beautiful girl, not like the rest,
And you’re never ever even afraid.”
“Hmm, let me think, can I really trust you?”
She replied as quick as she could,
“Sure you can,” he sent, quick as a flash,
“My intentions are all really good.”
So she slipped off her top, behind a locked door,
And numbly stood all alone,
And sent this guy, a photo of her,
Her confused body standing at home,
And this is their life, for new teenage years,
Pleasure removed from the dance,
Intimacy gone, replaced with an image,
Nude selfies replacing romance.
I return each year to make my peace
I wade through quilts of grass and stone
Beside the mounds, of cold damp earth
And pray it's true.......that angels hear
Will gather 'round to listen, now
I need to know that somewhere there
is someone close, to feel my breath
To hear the words I've left unsaid
or accolades I should have shared
But words, too late, I've kept unspoken
inaudible, are broken tears
and with regret, I will come
to spread transparent words around
I should have sung them long ago
Toss them like leaves, so you would know
to catch them like the leaves of fall...
And gently you would gather them
to keep them for your heart to own
Through the years I've held regret
From things suppressed that froze my tongue
And with regret, words linger yet,
Still hovering to weigh me down
---------------------------
For Catie's Contest: "No More Masks"
Inspired by a poem by Angelina W. Grimke
The Eyes of My Regret
Always at dusk, the same tearless experience,
The same dragging of feet up the same well-worn path
To the same well-worn rock;
The same crimson or gold dropping away of the sun
The same tints, - rose, saffron, violet, lavender, grey
Meeting, mingling, mixing mistily;
Before me the same blue black cedar rising jaggedly to
a point;
Over it, the same slow unlidding of twin stars,
Two eyes, unfathomable, soul-searing,
Watching, watching, watching me;
The same two eyes that draw me forth, against my will
dusk after dusk;
The same two eyes that keep me sitting late into the
night, chin on knees
Keep me there lonely, rigid, tearless, numbly
miserable -
The eyes of my Regret.
Your unique colors once flashed light’s perfection inside my
dark and with ecstatic presence you erased all the gray stains in
my heart. In embrace, through our words and shared actions,
our love merged and returned fulfilling, stirred and deserved
barrier-free years.
Now, you have spent months tinted as a disturbed and twisted
stranger. Nowhere did we swerve, no defining change occurred
yet you blurred. You will not converse or explain, but sadden
me by abandoning me to nurse this coarse pain you randomly
construed to be my forced companion.
Ignoring me and my kiss, my pleas fall infirm like harm-rinsed
germs that your heart brings on without remorse or rain clouds
aching for the storms. My amassed and treasured love depths
have collapsed beyond my grasp. Numbly, I hear the echo effects
of our shared dreams retreating steps.
New York
Please stop now,
Everything is moving
Like enclosed molecules
As we bounce to the beat
Of the city’s hum
In our caged world where
We are the only ones that matter even
As the Zen of the city runs like
The watering light
Of swarming, running, toppling
Limbs and quick-check faces.
We harness this light and numbly ask,
Where are my far-distant trees?
My imagined lives in the Great Expanse
Of other homes?
Where is my freedom?
My world of sky?
We've sold it for buildings.
And blood-knuckling knock of opportunity.
The merchant will never stop.
The city’s only silence is in the
Whisking of their moving coats as
They trade souls and walk homeward,
Upward. Through the dark.
I laid my heart upon your grave
That winter day when trees were bare;
Their withered leaves fell down to brave
The chill of winter death and share
With you, the frozen ground and air.
Cold tears of rain helped to impart
The gloom, as prayer some comfort gave…
But oh, the moaning of my heart.
I plucked a crimson rose that lay
Upon your grave, as rain fell down
And joined my tears that solemn day.
I held it to my heart to drown
My hurt, then slowly turned around
To numbly make my way to part
And join with loved ones, home to pray…
But oh, the moaning of my heart.
Then April came on quiet feet
To wake the trees with budding bloom.
Thawed ground gave birth, in Springtime heat,
To grass, that hid the ashen gloom.
Now stung to life by Springtime’s womb,
The golden youth of Earth gives start
To find new hope, new season greet…
But oh, the moaning of my heart.
I stand in shadow of death's sting;
Oh, Dad, why did you have to part?
Help me to heal with reborn Spring…
But, oh, the moaning of my heart.
~DAMAGED~
TAUNTING OF YOUR SADIST WHISPERS, ECHO IN MY HEAD
CONSTANTLY REMINDING ME, OF YOUR DESECRATION INFUSED
MY SELF~ESTEEM RENDERED UNTO ME, IN RATIONS FOR OBEDIENCE
NUMBLY, I ENVISIONED A CHANGE...THAT WOULD NEVER COME
WHELPS 'PON MY SOUL, DEEPER THAN THOSE MY SKIN
YOUR MANIACAL BARRAGES, VIRTIGUOUSLY PERVADE MY SLUMBER
FOR WANT OF MY TEARS, YOU...CAUSED MY RETREAT OF LIFE'S LIVING
THOUGH I STILL TRY TO CLEAVE, FOR WANT OF AN ENDING MORE ELATIVE
FOR ALL TREASURE OF TH' EARTH, I WOULD NOT SUFFER YE 'GAIN
I USED TO BELIEVE TH' PAST, WOULD NOT DETERMINE MY TOMORROWS
BUT JADED I'VE BECOME, MY TRUST NOW OPPRESSED IN CONTEMPT
FOR THAT WHICH DIDN'T KILL ME, YOU...MADE ME HUNGER
BELITTLED N' BROKEN, I NOW STAND ALONE...
MY EMPATHY FOR YOUR NEXT PREY, I OFFER AS SACRIFICE FOR YOUR DEMISE
WHEN YOU FIND YOURSELF, AMONGST TH' DEMONS OF YOUR IMPIETY...
FOR AS LONG AS I'M ALLOWED, I WILL SMILE INTO YOUR EYES...
...DAMAGED
©~AZAZA~'09
There’s an empty canvas above my head,
Where in place of a fan, lies a horse instead,
It breaks free from a self-loathing shed,
At times, when lips silenced words from being said.
Runs across the wall, the horse
But without glee, despite being free, without any remorse,
Numbly it sprints in a white landscape,
For it to understand its purpose is beyond vague.
As it gallops, it leaves a trail of self-identity behind,
Unaware of the absence of a sound mind,
It doesn’t take long for years to pass from specks of time,
And the canvas remains an art piece, still confined.
Displeased by my efforts, I try to find an eraser,
I sigh as I realise that fate was never in my favour,
With no escape from what I’ve just done,
I prepare myself for the final outcome.
So, a cowardly canvas is above my head,
But in place of a horse lies a fan instead,
It is attached to a rope?—?compassionately holding my head,
At last, I die as a muse of a cowardly death.
The Rose
Dear Dad- I plucked a crimson rose that lay
upon your grave, as icy rain fell down
and joined my warm, wet tears that winter day.
Unto my heart, I pressed it close to drown
my mournful thoughts and feelings deep inside.
And then I numbly made my way back home
to grieve and heal with loved ones by my side.
But soon they left, and I was all alone.
That night I placed the crimson rose within
a random place inside a book of prose
and it pressed flat for quite some time therein.
One day I opened it to find I chose
the place that God directed me to lay
that rose in answer to my prayers of where
you were in death so that my heart could say
that everlasting life was yours to share.
What I had hoped I know for sure is true-
for words upon the page where that rose slept,
"The Grave," by Robert Blair, bodes life anew-
in God’s eternal life our souls are kept.
My keepsake rested in a book of prose-
God’s intervention was my only guide.
Mid secret pages dried your crimson rose-
God’s answer to my prayer- with thanks, I cried.
Sandra M. Haight
~1st Place~
Contest: Any Sad Poem
Sponsor: Broken Wings
Judged: 12/23/2015
~2nd Place~
Contest: Not Your Average Ballade
Sponsor: Catie Lindsey
Judged: 05/09/2015
Priscilla’s News
The Word
Threads every dawn
Dyed in blue
And
Purples hues
And walks in time
With the meter of a shuttle
A steady
Pulsing rhythm
The beat of warp and woof
Rising-falling
Falling – rising
Weaving seasons through the soul
Into new patterns
Of hope
Foretold –
Life born from an empty tomb
And ancient promise
Raised up in flesh
Called from the grip of a cerecloth
Shouting in triumph
Over mortality clothed in flesh
In bright threads of victory;
A season of the heart
Peering through dark threads
Of winter’s midnight
And passing over
The bondage of empires
And conquering armies
In crimson strands,
The Word
Proclaimed to countless souls
Shivering through each starless night –
Waiting-hoping
Hoping-waiting
Not knowing eternity’s covenant
Changed the pattern
Of each life which numbly wandered
From Eden to exile
Exile to Eden
New creations –
New highways leveled -
New valleys rise embracing mountaintops
Where footsteps
Joyfully announce
Good News!
Changing colors of despair
To brilliant shades of joy
In the handiwork of a new handmaid -
Woman of the Word –
Who did not travel the holy roads,
Or wait upon the Living Word,
But sees through eyes,
Once blinded eyes
That held the coats
Of hands that martyrs made,
The calling of the weaver’s wife
To raise a herald’s voice
In a foreign wilderness
For those who wait in darkness
Preparing a new made way
In a tent of tapestry – hearts interwoven –
Bound by the Word.