Long Pits Poems
Long Pits Poems. Below are the most popular long Pits by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pits poems by poem length and keyword.
New Year 2013 may welcome Peace
May the New Year welcome the peace and
Feed good thoughts in our minds
May it sow noble seeds in our land
To change this hell at least as Earth
Bloody violence may go out of this land and
Nasty hunger may go for it’s death
Stupid poverty may reach it’s corner
Lovely world may incarnate from this hell
May my dreams come to true on this dawn
May His mercy shower on our lives
May my pen write prosperity in epics
I want these My Lord bless me to attain
Lazy dogs may go to their pits
Greedy worms may go to their end
Corruptive gems may go to deep
Holy souls may bless to us
Early in the morning as my wife leaves out;
caring for her father leaving me in doubt.
Therefore my emotions start to tell about
how I feel today.
Feeling so forsaken as I don this mask;
putting on this phony smile becomes a task.
Wearing it’s my destiny so need you ask
how I feel today.
Spreading time ‘tween work and home I wear two hats;
tending to my clients’ needs and feeding cats;
feeling like I’m being split in two, and that’s
how I feel today.
Feeling sort of breathless from this endless blitz;
caught between two lives sometimes is just the pits;
wond’ring when this carousel will end, and it’s
how I feel today.
May10, 2018
Contest: Rhyme and Refrain
Sponsor: Broken Wings
As ravens, Pharisees were filled with destructive pleasures.
Termites of Puritanism had been eating up their minds?
They thought they had fallen from heaven as truth possessors.
Each of their ape-like actions, had endless evil designs.
Poor humans, unlike these, worked six days physically hard.
Shouldn't they rest to vitalize their physique and psyche?
The Sabbath was a day of rest. It's a day to thank God
This day too, they loaded the poor with rules that were sickly
Carrying one's cot is wrong. Grassing the cattle is wrong.
Picking heads of grain to eat, is equal to harvesting.
Helping is wrong. Healing is wrong. The list grew very long.
We are right, and not you—that's the sense they were harboring
Sly laws, like elephant-calf pits, put the poor in danger.
It's then that Jesus came as the trend-setter and game changer.
My, My, My
My life is a crack in the concrete
My faith is an old newspaper cutout
My soul is the drifting clouds
My heart is a crystal sphinx
My core is as solid as a cup of pudding
My voice is a hundred tapping feet
So many words circle around my mind
Reminding me I could never speak them all
I wish the sky was closer so I could touch it
When I feel like I'm falling from oh so high
Many times I feel like I'm selling stories
Good enough to be read but never instant classics
These feelings I feel are taped to my heart
But the duct tape is slowly peeling away
A lot of verbs represent what I like to do
But there's a lot of verbs I'll never experience
Yet maybe if the iron walls come crashing
I'll experience life like a brand new dictionary
My life is a leaf falling to the ground
My faith is an old unread novel
My soul is the stars in the universe
My heart is a sabertooth tiger
My core is merely a collection of bottle caps
My voice is a hundred buzzing vuvuzelas
Days pass where I cut words from magazines
Folding them up into old albums I'll never look at again
I keep dipping my feet into pits of brownie mix
Wishing I could taste yet I lack a tongue
Most of the time I'm living an ancient ghost story
Locked in the basement of a haunted mansion
Yet these wood paneled walls can't keep me in
Not when I'm as tall as any adjective in my mind
Not a day passes when I don't look at the sky
To see if I can cut the truth from the very clouds
It's like a hundred new mysteries each and every day
Just waiting for eager minds to find them
My life is the sun setting in the horizon
My faith is an old countryside sit-in diner
My soul is the song of a million grasshoppers
My core is the binding of an old book
My voice is the breath of a thousand sleeping babies
We drove all day on dusty roads to Xian
in the Shaanxi province
to see the clay men.
The army is deployed in large archaeological pits.
Our guide, a Chinese beauty, marshals us from the front
like any good general.
Her voice is a dulcet lagoon
in this desiccated place.
We all notice that her silk cheongsam
clings to her embroidered,
peach of a bottom.
The arsenic-poisoned emperor died as mad as a hatter,
believing a metalloid would grant him endless life.
It`s difficult to tell if his megalomania arrived
before his craziness, or after
but they buried him deep where insanity is timeless.
As we file out, I look back.
The clay spear carriers
the foot soldiers, the dusty officers
even the horses,
all of them seem to be stifling smirks -
their eyes latched upon
a heavenly peach, no doubt.
When Freedom Grows Cold
(not a nice poem)
One day the dogs will not bark.
I/we will not be ready,
as they will have failed...
to do all that was needed,
and asked of them.
Perhaps not their fault,
as in Venezuela...
they are eaten by the poor.
There are a lot of hungry, there.
Not so many dogs, anymore.
At church, we fold dollars,
with funny pictures,
of past and present rulers,
unimportant now.
Once hailed high in that foreign land,
now laid low by socialism,
and "FREE for ALL".
Basically worthless colors,
to make butterfly bookmarks,
small angels to fly from tome to tome,
and hail the dangers of censorship,
the lack of freedom to discuss ideas...
freely from both sides of the fence,
fake news and propaganda,
one in the same,
a mirror into manipulation.
Built from the bones of the sad,
and the lost,
impaled on indecision...
once the high and the mighty.
Guns and violence given bad names,
bestowed as treason, and murder.
The truth, defendable land...
against tyrants and kings,
that pressure the weak into pits,
and shoot them for sport.
Evil angel why does you run from pain?
Evil angel what is going on again?
Evil angel why do you fear the coin toss.
Evil angel what would happen if you got tossed?
Any outer, stout, pouting white powder,
Could take you to some cloud?
Gimme a break for crying out loud...
Age will bring fables,
Some despise those that lie.
The next page will be stable,
Yet you must still attempt to try,
The force is unbalanced,
But we aren't watching Star Wars,
Sure, you have some talent,
Yet, this next period will draw its sword...
Eve must have heaved, bereaved, while leaving the lot...
A Dom realized the change when,
They both fell fruitless when they got...
Caught up in it,
Sick of it,
Sticking to the ,
That only through the pits,
One forgets,
It is very, very sick,
I quit...
Tick Tok tick
Just for another little bit,
When the world gets twirled around again,
Then sticks to the drip,
When there are no more fits,
While getting lit.
...
Slump
(Shakesperean sonnet in Iambic Pentameter)
Sobs, muted sobs, night's harvest of remorse,
spread from the core and dribble through the eyes,
in search of solace on this woeful course,
of bygone suns that shall no longer rise.
Cries, muffled cries, those nightmares of despair,
rise from the pits to choke a gloomy soul,
and waken corpses from commitments’ lair,
where pledges gather dust in a black hole.
Yet this numb, downcast, and lethargic mood,
returns with vengeance early every morn,
like pleasant warmth of summer lassitude,
no matter the night’s ridicule and scorn.
Regret piles up, like mail we never read,
To foster apathy and sorrow breed
Placed 4th
10.15.2022
Submitted to "A Brian Strand Premiere Contest"
There are circumstances in life
that frighten people from finding new thresholds
as the random footstep trepidates the mellow rabbit,
the immense,monumental,momentous achievements of our lives
oft commence with common & innocuous prevails
over mild and trite tribulations,
impulsions,risks,spontenieaties
are the instruments of the gallant,
the anxiety of the meek,and the ruin of the impetuous,
as discretion is the anvil of Justice,
the sage & accomplished do not seek out the epic
because they are well tempered like the hammer of Justice,
the courageously wise kiss the epic twist,
the tough,tenacious & triumphant need the epic
like stars require the dark for shine,
a castle without seige is just a large lonely home,
epic provides aspirations,
epic emotions, epic companionships, epic animosities
throw us into pits of peril and the satisfaction of survival,
inspiration,creation are Godsends not habbit,
epic pain, epic joy, epic heartache & hardship, epic strength
are the fruits of the lightning struck tree,
let the crows,and eagles rest on thee, golden habitat,
adore epic dreams, epic fidelity, epic failure and epic resuscitations,
heed the sqwuak of the shy scavangers
who mock,jeer & hide from epic presentations,
let your Soul require epic strain,stress and salvation,
without Epic there is only starving eagerness for existence
which will grind spirit upon stone of pumice -
J.A.B.
Gravely digging the grave digger digs
holes for souls; waste pits plotted
earth soils clogging
Collections of bones for storage and mind
Disposal in disguise
Many a form, Goldfinch alike, are left
in place of death; laying spent, shrivelled
dishevelled, colours still abright
I wasn't going to dig a hole so I left it
where it lay; no-one will dig for its soul
No grave digger digs such a small pit
No respect, no clogging, no digging
Instead the finches are left
along with the Linnet, the Thrush, the Owl
and the Crow; destined to be sucked back
into nature's cauldron
to go wherever birds go