Long Page Poems
Long Page Poems. Below are the most popular long Page by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Page poems by poem length and keyword.
From faded photos, whispers of a past I can't forget,
The stories of my grandmas, a lingering regret.
Of promises unspoken, of rights that were denied,
Of strength in silent protest, with dignity and pride.
We see the newsreel footage, the black-and-white reports,
And wonder at the courage of those who filled the courts.
This country built on freedom, with ideals so grand,
Did we truly follow God's eternal, just command?
The screens we hold now flicker with new tragedies each day,
Another headline screaming, another soul astray.
A mother’s tearful vigil, a father’s plea for grace,
A child’s future broken in a divided, fractured space.
I scroll through angry comments, through judgments sharp and cold,
A world of instant opinions, a story yet untold
Of who we are, a people, created from one source,
Losing our connection, veering off our righteous course.
My blood begins to simmer, a digital, hot rage,
At every hateful message on a post or comment page.
How can we forget the lessons, the words from Jesus' lips?
To love our closest neighbor, to heal the bitter rips.
For every soul is precious, a masterpiece of light,
Created in His image, shining ever bright.
And yet we build our borders, with fear as our main guide,
Ignoring all the teachings He gave us from inside.
But then a different image, a hopeful, small detail,
A protest sign held high, a spirit to prevail.
A person reaching outward, a hand stretched out in need,
Planting seeds of kindness, a beautiful new creed.
The future isn't written, it’s a blog post in the making,
A chance for new beginnings, a risk we must be taking.
To write a different story, to change the trending feed,
To show a Christian nation that answers every need.
So let’s use our devices for a holy, righteous fight,
To amplify the voices that champion what is right.
For in each face, I see Him, the Savior, Lord, and Friend,
Whose love can mend all broken things, right to the very end.
Let's share a message of hope, with all the world to see,
A digital revolution for peace and liberty.
For God has shown the pathway, of love that wins it all,
And in that blessed mission, we answer freedom’s call.
As though mixing the caffeine of deep desires and wishes
With the crystal water cognizance to make gold-brown niches
Where-from, yearnings, like fogs of fine frankincense, resurrect
Bedecked with the sweet-bitter-blend, filtered conscience effect
Settings get upset; there's an idle-ordeal order.
Foundations, once set, turn reflections on a broken mirror.
Kingdoms and empires are brought to below-ground level dust.
When stirs turn earthquakes, born out of rebellions of mistrust
Time's tumult; seasonal surge; waves of the ocean weather
Stir has set its soul within each fragile flying feather.
The friction set by the spiritual stir, like a sage
Goes on discovering and finding wisdom's newer page
I don't think people understand
Why I'm so angry, or why I'm so sad
The problem is neither do I
The feelings of love hard to defy
I'm living in a sea of rage
By boat is sinking, how big the hole is hard to gauge.
Iv got my oars but im not moving
I'm going under, my boat diffusing
Tactile meetings is the plan
The timer ticking, times already began
This has to be done my way to please,
The broken person only my mirror sees
What will be said, the where, what and hows
Can only be done when my mind allows
Hit them with facts is my first goal
How this plays out is in my control
She'll tell me all that i have done wrong
He will say he knew nothing all along
But in the middle both their stories hold truth
They both told a lie, its me they abused
Do I send her a video, cards on the table?
Or should I knock on her door when im able?
Do I send him a 5 page text?
Or do I put any relationship with him to bed?
Iv never been able to say the word dad
Don't get me wrong I know he is bad
But when these teenagers became adults
Why did they lie and harm their child?
So many questions won't be asked
So many answers they will retract
I don't know exactly what I need to hear
But a sorry won't come from "mummy dear"
I can't hate her; I still love her
If she reads my words she will think I'm the monster
But she's a Narcissit, my brain conditioned
To believe she is right, my loyalty i need to reposition
I need to put the thoughts away in my head
Lock the key close it, lay it to rest
My approach to the situation maybe different
When the pain and anger is gone and my thoughts are coherent
Today I felt some passion again
I found myself smiling, my life to regain
The fact that I was able to feel less mad
Means they haven't won, and for that I'm glad
Time is a healer, life moves on
The child they abused I will no longer mourn
But for the girl in the past and for the me in the future
Things have to be said no matter how bitter
I'm going to leave things well alone till then
Build myself and be happy again
I'll never forget all they have done
But for now my life needs to move on ......
In another time and age
we could have written a new page
crossing paths on land or sea
brushing cheeks with destiny.
With youthful zest and joy
our ardent quills employ
to mix your ink with mine
with passion so divine
and then the words would flow
to set each heart aglow.
If our souls could sing and rhyme
beyond the horizon of time
to mirror our words with perfection
with utmost sincerity and affection
to bring distinct colours and shades
we seal a bond that will not fade
as we reach for eternity
bathing in blissful affinity.
Mirrored thoughts on a new page
in another time and age.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
A Paul Callus & Red Fiery collaboration
© 2016
Let sunshine rule news on front page,
But where’s its old dreamy image?
Where those soft strokes of blue,
Ochre, green, purple hue,
Monetisque summer’s old adage?
Mild tone nor yet tenor,
Heat there’s real, not Renoir,
It’s Earth’s revenge or Sunny rage?
____________________________________
Happenings |08.07.2023| summer
Poet’s note: Time was when summer had an air of romance; time was when Impressionist style painters painted summer with soft strokes of light blue; time was, summer was just an absence of harsh winter in Europe, and a heat wave there was anything above 25 degree C, and in India, 45 degree C, but no longer. To add to all this are widespread forest fires. Sure, the heat is real, no longer the romantic soft strokes of Renoir.
I wrote the word
then—
lifted
it
from the page
and something
(not silence)
opened underneath
a small dark root
taking hold
where the word
had been
not grief
no—
not yet
only the hush
after
a name loosens
from the mouth
and does not return
The words I buried
did not die
they turned
pale
listening
whitened underground
drinking—
slowly—
the ink
from my crossed-out lines
feeding
on refusal
on absence
until
the page
itself
begins
to open
after midnight
not with speech
never speech
but with petals
insistently
pressed
pressing
against the paper
from
the other side
Reflections on a Wall
From the valley floor
A stone arises,
Straight walls of polished blackness,
In between rolling, grassy knolls
Hidden in their cleft –
Arms open wide,
Welcoming pilgrims
Who in pilgrimage approach
It’s darkened face,
Burdened by their tears
Written on a page,
Wounded hearts, reopened,
In time and from far away
In air that hangs so somber,
Yet so full,
Like incense smoke,
Slowly lifting quiet sobs and farewell words
Into Heaven’s air
Until they meld
To final rest upon
The fragrant floral tributes,
As one clear voice of taps,
Bidding youthful souls
And mourning hearts be one again
Within the granite wellspring bubbling up
Like a flame - eternal as the spirit sighs
That rest within the stone -
Where life reflects back to the living
In a visage blank - a void -
Through the eyes of death
To see in the reflection
A mirror framed by silent tears
When hands held in mourning
Trace the outline of a signature,
Remembering the warmth shared
In first steps
Or love awakening,
Then reach out to touch the name
Etched into the stone
Reviving life,
Holding onto a youthful hand outstretched
For one brief moment rejoined with life -
Two souls touch -
Then pulled away into that space
That all mortal flesh fears
To bid adieu again
Across the finite portal into eternity.
Reflections on the Vietnam Memorial – Washington DC
The whole life can be read on a page on my palm
As the page takes a second to photoshoot inside out.
Shivering chilling of the photoshoot, under a scorching hot sun
We were smiling to each other; smiling is sweet like sugar
Could it be the case of a butterfly meeting others on Mackinac Island?
Observing a butterfly might take you to a wasp-sting here in Texas, though.
O ma vie! I could never be a butterfly, never tried so!
Stars of lone star state are now coming home, tired and hungry.
They, all are bringing butterflies in their bags, lots and lots of them
To bury them all in a row in their backyard!
I will unfold my palm again when all are done with them.
And another cycle of photoshoot is approaching …soon.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Schwinn’s cracked leather bit my thighs~
a throne for princesses of asphalt flights.
The downhill rush, the brake-pad scream,
the penny tossed in the fountain’s gleam.
Miss Talbot, wrapped in lemon light,
knew the hunger in my eyes before I spoke.
Her fingers—witchcraft—plucked the spines
of books that hummed with secret lives.
Ten books. Always ten.
Their weight slumped in saddlebags,
a cargo of ghosts: Anne’s attic whispers,
Charlotte’s moors, the Oz dust
clinging to my cuffs like stolen glitter.
Winter nights: Nancy’s flashlight clues
pooled in my lap. Summer’s stale heat
lifted Emily’s dashes—brief, sharp~
into my lungs. The library’s breath
was glue and ink and something older~
the scent of time pressed flat,
waiting to spring.
I rode home heavy with kingdoms,
the Schwinn’s wheels wobbling
under the heft of Oz, of Avonlea,
of a thousand doors I’d unlocked
with a card thinner than a blade.
Even now, the creak of a shelf,
the whisper of a page turned,
is the sound of a bike chain rolling,
rolling, never stopping~
just slowing, sometimes,
to let me catch up.
you may read the related memoir vignette at poetrysoup.com/short_stories/a_girl_a_bike_a_librarian_and_a_magical_spell_13645
On social media and TV,
in papers that we buy,
bodies well honed and muscles toned,
the gorgeous greet our eyes.
Through pouting lips in selfies,
tousled hair and perfect tans,
parading in some foreign place
for legions of their fans.
To all innocent youngsters
for that perfect look they seek,
each Venus and Adonis
in their eyes, have reached their peak.
But pursuing the unobtainable
is a voyage crewed by fools,
in the waters of self worship
run aground in shallow pools.
For with each new morning sunrise
we turn another page,
and time flows like a river
and on it floats our age.
We treat this Earth like Gods
but immortal we are not,
friends, family, possessions transient,
your life is all you've got.
Oh,Youth be kind, be selfless
and thus you'll live life well,
for precious looks will fade with time
and old age will be Hell.