Long Overturned Poems
Long Overturned Poems. Below are the most popular long Overturned by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Overturned poems by poem length and keyword.
Their spirits rest forever and without a stir
They spilled their blood on the field of honor
They charged into harms way when they got the command
Fought their heart out for a line in the sand
Brothers in arms united in a company
Fighting for our freedom which didn’t come free
They gave up their lives for the home of the brave
So enjoy your rights and let old glory wave
Show them respect for the medals they’ve earned
Realize the price of tyranny overturned
A folded flag is often only what remains
Let the pride of America swell in your veins
Thank them salute them be proud of them in each an every way
Remember the sacrifice of our military on this Memorial Day
I thought I knew what love was,
What it meant, how it felt, and how to contain it without absorption
But I could’ve never been more wrong
The idea was foreign to me until our paths crossed,
Until our eyes met between shimmers of light in a crowded room,
Our hearts between microphones, consoles, and television
And our souls between the familiarity of being a victim in the past
The truth is and I’ve said this before,
But know now I’ve never meant it more -
I never knew what love was until I met you
You show me patience when mine is thin,
You show me compassion when my heart has gone cold,
and the world numb
You love me with intention
The intention to be more than superficial
I can only promise to love you the same in return,
Until I breathe my last breath,
And the dirt overturned
I love you, always
xoxo
In the twilight of my soul, where shadows whisper untold secrets,
Our eyes meet, and in that fleeting moment, the universe unfolds,
Filled with terrible confessions, like stars burning in a silent sky,
Our eyes, those windows to the soul, speak of lost love, of shattered dreams.
Through the labyrinth of my thoughts, I wander, a ghost in my own mind,
The echoes of your gaze haunt me, a symphony of intertwined melancholy,
The eyes say it all, they are the storytellers of our deepest fears,
They tell tales of longing, of suffering, of silent, unspoken tears.
In the mirror of your eyes, I see reflections of a time long past,
A garden of forgotten promises, where love once bloomed, but did not last,
Your eyes, those shimmering pools of sorrow, hold the weight of the world,
They are galaxies of pain and passion, where our shared history is unfurled.
Like a river flowing through the valleys of our intertwined destinies,
Our eyes convey an ancient language, one of melancholic serenities,
They whisper of the nights spent in each other's arms, of the dawns we missed,
They murmur the secrets of our souls, in a silent, melancholic tryst.
I delve into the depths of your gaze, searching for fragments of myself,
In your eyes, I find pieces of my heart, scattered, forsaken, overturned,
The confessions they hold are like a mirror, reflecting my inner struggle,
They are the silent narrators of our intertwined, tumultuous life.
In the silent conversation between our eyes, lies an unseen world,
A realm where love and sorrow dance, where joy and suffering converge,
Our eyes, those portals to the soul, speak a truth words cannot define,
They reveal the depth of our connection, the agony of our intertwined line.
And so, in the twilight of our shared existence, we stand, eyes locked in a melancholic embrace,
The terrible confessions they hold, a testament to our journey, to our grace,
For in the language of the eyes, we find a truth so profound,
That even in the silence, our souls are forever bound.
Under the seamless sapphire dome,
overturned with the sparkling sky,
my mind morphs instantly
into an ornate vase of blooming vale,
carved out of rhythmic contours
by the cheerfully cascading essence,
flowing through the bounty of blossom
in the current of earnest zeal.
Harbored happily in the shining shore
of the boundless sea of life,
a lone pebble I relentlessly roll
with the timeless tide of time,
caressed by the successive surge
of the incessant ecstasy waves,
spreading on me the embellishment,
ornamented by the pearls of rapture.
Mesmerized by the celestial show in the sky,
performed by the countless stars of joy,
I sail with soulful innate tranquility
in the river of consciousness,
on an unending inner voyage
to the summoning sea of serenity,
where in the leitmotif of heavenly love
I immerse my enticed being.
When the dark cloud of gloom is adrift
over my mental landscape, the sordid shadows,
shaped by the dissonance of disturbing times,
configure the pattern of roiling turmoil,
a pensive pilgrim concealed within me
gets a shelter in God’s benign benevolence,
bestowed with the best blessing of bliss
from the cornucopia of His divine grace.
______________
November 15, 2022
Contest : Best Blessing
Sponsored by : Regina McIntosh
The internet kills me. Just as it has for many other little girls. As it twists the narrative into making us look like items. Items that can be used as you please because we have no control over even our own souls. With no control over our bodies, we’re looked at like we’ve committed a crime but we haven’t. Unless the crime of being born in the wrong gender is worth a life sentence. I’m confused. Confused about why we women have to be controlled by those who don’t even know how we live. As our little girls are told lies. Lies of how they must act or will be attacked by the men who can’t control themselves and wreck an innocent girl's perfect image. Our perfect image of men from the movies and our perfect image of innocence are ripped away by society's twisted hypocrites that sway the women to act as they like instead of telling the problem to keep their eyes to themselves. As we crack like the mirrors that give us a twisted image of our beauty making our little girls feel puny. We feel weak. Because we have no voice in this hypocritical society. Women are the producers of the next generation yet are still treated like we are nothing but the carriers of the future. But we are more than that. We are strong, but our actions are futile. Because in 20 some years all our work will be overturned by the men who think they control us. The men who make us feel worthless. The men sew our mouths shut with sutures to stop us from protecting our future.
Crack!
A violent ocean wind
has trampled furiously
over a collection
of coconut palms,
demolishing them
like bowling pins.
Now overturned,
the roaring current, with the wind as his accomplice
reaches out with writhing turmoil,
blinding the skies with darkness.
(Pinpricks of light shine).
The ocean rips the coconut from its tightly woven bed,
rearing open its gaping mouth
to condemn it to an eerie fate;
swallowed beneath an ineffable weight.
Strangely, it yielded to the monstrous waves.
Like feathers in the breeze, it simply let
the ocean bear it, further and further from the shore.
Only a crack could sink it,
yet the sea despite all its might, was impotent.
And- perhaps- the coconut knew-
that as sure as nature has torn down its house,
it must also guide it to new lands
where it could root and make another home,
anew.
Waiting for the sea to quell itself,
the coconut passes the time
by counting the stars.
Each year that I live
Each burden for all the years
Every emotion that I give
Followed by each bucket of tears
I wonder Oh God, what shall I do?
I have searched the universe
Looking for divine truth since my youth
What is my purpose?
Am I a tool for you?
Every relationship I get burned
Every friendship overturned
Every dollar I’ve earned is from tedious work
Still, I yearn
My hopes and dreams remain unfulfilled
Every waking moment continues to be time to kill
Show me the way for there is account
For all of my breaths
Because I am running out of time and patience
And it’s causing anxiety and stress
Meat galore going for cheap in the stores, meat galore piling up on your shore. I cannot believe that the world is starving when tons of chickens and assorted meats are scattered everywhere in the street.
The loaded truck overturned spilling packages of meat on the ground, lining the sidewalks and filling the gully, everyone is moving in a hurry.
The truck driver was lucky to come out alive so he calls the people to have a feast with the raw meat. He said that he could not reload the truck because the meat had picked up dust and the insurance would pay for it, and so he waited for the wrecker to come and pull up the truck. People start jumping in bushes loading their bags and boxes and anything that they could find to stuff the meat.
Let everyone come and eat, pull the covers off your feet, sprinkle water on your face and get ready to start a brand-new race. There is plenty of meat to eat, pork chops, veal, and beef, mutton, pork ribs, and whale, kangaroo meat cooked with brown rice and delicate frog legs sent as a gift from Paris. Let everyone come and eat there is plenty of meat to eat.
The dogs are barking, the roosters are crowing and the hens are dining and romanticizing. This is the period for the hens and so you have leave the lion's den before the clock struck ten.
The mice are running around on the floor and they are climbing through the door, they are running up and down the wall with food in their mouths and cookies stuck in their throat .When the hens are away the mice will definitely play, puss in boots has several meals to choose and just as I speak of it the cat captured it with its swollen lips. Let everybody come and eat.
Mr. Charity is no stranger he is a mega donor you will not be short of anything when you move in with the timing. There are lots of things to share but Mr. Charity is on the run because has accumulated a fortune in the hot sun.
He has created fake web pages to channel money from all races, he has a secret bank account to run short errands in the town and when he accumulates enough, he stuffs his gut and run and the website disappeared. Let everyone come eat, good meat is wasting in the street.
Hanging out with me may be whatever,
But talking to me,
When you really begin talking to me....
It's just like a flip is switched..
Or I flip some kind of a switch all of a sudden
And quite unexpectedly
And you start pouring out..
Saying and revealing things about yourself
About things.the way you feel.or have felt about
Everything or particular things
Because to me ,it's like talking to your own soul,
Infact,I may be just that ,
Sure, I'm out here living
and walking around now,Same as you....
But it's just like that inner....
That inward point of view and being..yours.
He is suddenly right here with you
Before your eyes,right besides you
Caring, listening, urging, compelling,
Just setting you free
Many are so scare or frightened..Frozen
They never let this anger out...
This fear.. sorrow.. pain.. whatever it is
Whatever else it is..
These things bury me
Conceal and cover up
So scared of what they might say
What that then would mean too for having being said..
Fears, frustrations, confusion, am i a coward?
Am I a terrible person now?
I must be crazy,horrible,a monster, or terribly good....
Authentic,true being, kind, compassionate,
And if so ,what now
How can I , How could you?
So many things ....and these things...
Be they experiences or true feelings over things..
Not allowing these things to be spoken..
Heard by themselves...suits me out....
Then their soul...
It's like a dump truck of thoughts..
Feelings and emotions are overturned and really upon me..
And all this ...this weight ..covers me..
And forces me to go hard..
To just deal with this ever rising and increasing weight ..load..God it's heavy
And then I come around
Most never are really aware this has even happened
I’ve been looking for my sanity.
Pretty sure it slipped out the back door
without bothering to shut it,
dragging my motivation by the wrist
and pulling loose the last few thoughts
I’d managed to keep upright.
Inside my head: wreckage.
Drawers overturned, lights buzzing,
memories on the floor like broken glass.
I keep circling the same rooms in myself,
tripping on old fears,
finding grief where I thought I’d buried it.
I’m so goddamn tired—
the kind of tired that sinks into bone,
into all the soft places I hide
because I’m still pretending I’m “fine.”
I’m worn thin from holding myself together
with shaking hands and forced composure,
from trying to speak through a fog
that eats every thought before it forms.
Some days I hear echoes of who I used to be—
a faint hum, something steady—
but it slips away before I can touch it.
Everything slips now:
hope, attention, the reason I walked into a room.
I check the corners of my mind
like I might find myself there,
wedged between the dishes
and the ache I carry like a second spine.
I talk to the walls because they don’t ask questions.
They don’t notice how often I fracture.
I’m stitched together with alarms,
with lists, with survival disguised as strength—
a patchwork of what hasn’t given up yet.
The static in my head has its own weather.
A glitching radio,
a low hum I can’t outrun.
Even the voice telling me to get it together
sounds exhausted,
leaning in the dark
catching its breath.
If my sanity ever crawls back,
I won’t ask for explanations—
just quiet.
Just a moment where my thoughts don’t scatter
or crash.
A little mercy for the parts of me
that feel rubbed raw.
Until then, I’ll keep going—
not bravely, not beautifully—
just… going.
Dragging myself forward,
one scraped-up thought at a time,
sifting through the wreckage
for whatever pieces still belong to me,
hoping there’s a version of myself in here
that remembers how to stay.