Long Pled Poems
Long Pled Poems. Below are the most popular long Pled by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pled poems by poem length and keyword.
( It seems the only thing eternal life has left me is eternal tears.
For my lost son Christopher; named after the god who suffers. )
I knew you before I met you
cage crossing through mad books
your stainless leap
forcep-blessed
matrix-reprieved
weaving bled-shred
embers to god-pled
braving
the cairn of night
to do full
dubious ends
god's just
flung to hijacked earth as
after-thought
of finer stone
slashed lash skin broke to Moses hues
whose mode struck cursed
to sudden wander
to tower-armed berths annexed next in
your voyeur's finger rage
to run abducted through heuristic sunk-end heads
and sacrifice your brokered queen
prove your tongue-burning tears
a strangled pen
inched favor from chain-shell shouts
sieved by sheltering friends
savaged the race-card feeds
fouled in chilling fidgets
glyphed everyman's advance
to cherish one ascending
giving divinity thought-shadow charges
to dodge doc's sunny reparteé
finally
bipolar glue-power unclogs the gash
cherish your psyche's wormwood-hack
your peace-ink cooling blue
your snow-truth judgement bridged
with one bank and a gun
whose prophet
son of none
_________________
Notes:
1. A journalist once asked the Dalai Lama if he had to reduce the teachings of Buddhism to one word, what would it be. His response was; "Compassion".
If asked to do the same for Christianity, my word, similarly, would be: "Kindness".
“Say uncle! Give up!” my older brother said
As he wrestled me to the floor.
No, keep at it until I got him down,
but soon Mom was at the door.
“You two at it again?” she pled
Oh, but I wanted to hold a limb
But his was five years stronger
I could hold on no longer.
Then the humility came.
He won this game.
The competitions were fun
But it seemed I never won.
What it did give me was courage
Though I hated it like porridge
Cold, left over...like dying.
He would never catch me crying!
Are you afraid of loosing,
Or of a sickness with sores oozing?
Can you loose with grace,
Seeing pride as your opponent’s face?
Are you afraid of demons or spirits
Or can you resist until all submits?
To the name of Jesus you wield
Thankfully to Him we yield.
It’s not just a game.
For us He came,
To teach us in real life
In all battles and in all strife,
That we can rejoice and win
If we keep our peace and love within,
We can even help others be free,
To never give up until eternity.
Words are peculiar things of the mind
formed up there inside your head
so many of them full of emotion
others taste like old stale bread
In times of hurting real bad
eventually the bleeding does stop
you think the wound will get better
even as the pain level does drop
The mind starts to play it's tricks
deceiving your emotions in the mix
bringing confusion into play
showing different rules every day
You have pled for your healing
but some words never do this
they refuse to dry up inside
showing reluctance so stay amiss
So independent and socially aloof
such words disobey your mind
seem to enjoy living the fool
so will life itself you do find
(QUOTE:
'Some words never heal , they just stop bleeding' - Anon.)
Yeah, I’m eighty years old and still got life to go,
Cannot wait to see what’s up ahead to know,
My hair is gray and I walk kind of slow,
More content than if I had a bank full of gold.
Have had opportunities to study and grow,
Crossed America from shore to shining shore,
But thirst for more in life isn’t in limbo,
Experience and knowledge have pled to do more.
Fortunate to have surpassed my ten and three score,
Don’t plan to stop until there is breathe no more,
Just cannot believe how fast life has flown,
Another flicker and the balance will be gone.
All my misdeeds and failings have been forgiven,
There is hope for me beyond the horizon,
Pray God’s grace see me on, may it be so,
For I’m eighty years old and still have life to go.
Created in His image from the first,
And charged with cultivating all He wrought,
Soon idle hands begot us banished, cursed,
And weary, prone to wander was our lot.
Rejecting God, "A golden calf!” we pled;
Soon all did what was right in their own eyes.
Our king, not God, we chose a man instead;
Our name, not His, we lifted upon high.
But God, from glory, condescends to take
An empty, humble form from which to give.
Obedient to death all for our sake,
Then raised that we might ever with him live.
Rejoice, rejoice, the come Emmanuel!
Christ pitched his tent among us, pleased to dwell!
In the 3rd Stage of Disillusionment
A meiquin may say things to make you smile
As you enter the false comfort zone she comprimises you
The receptors in your brain are becoming incoherent and you believe her lies
As men stalk men in a womans words
As she tells her sister
"The devil always wants what's mine"
And the Orchestration she is in control of
This plight of Live, laugh, and love she believes so much in
It's quite certain
The biggest steps are _ the ones you take when you fall down
And she falls and she likes to be lifted up
And I have survive the sword
And when she pled silently
I never resisted her cry for help
“Aslan, why does the sun shine so bright in Narnia?” I queried.
“My friend,” the big lion told me, “it is a light that is unwearied.”
“Why must we all feel so full of this darkness, dear Aslan?”
“The dark shadows fall away once you repent to the Son.”
“Dear Aslan,” I whispered quietly, “when will I know true hope?”
“When you let go of the past – it’s pain, dread and fear, learning to let go and cope.”
“Why do I feel like I don’t have the strength to make it, Aslan?”
“Because you are weary, my friend, just believe and I’ll give you the power that won’t be outdone.”
“Aslan, dear lion,” I pled, “Will I go to heaven when I’m dead?”
“All you need to do is believe, friend, for heaven to be ahead.”
“Whatever comes in this life,” I asked him, “Can I depend on you?”
“I’ll always be there, dear child,” he said, “from end to end, all through.
I’ll never leave you nor forsake you. I am available to protect you.”
“Aslan,” I smiled, “I seemed to know you – even as a small child. Were you there even then? When I was so small I couldn’t see you were mild?”
“Yes,” he grinned, “I have always been your friend. The guide to your heart and soul. The one who helped you to know – comfort and faith, the miracle that made you whole.”
“I will always love you, Aslan,” I spoke louder, “my heart will always yearn for your home above.”
“Listen up, sweet child,” he spoke, “let your heart be your guide and always know… in life and in love, faith will make a way for your soul to know the joy of silencing the fear and listening to the One who pours out His blessings, His love on the heart who knows that this life is only a stepping stone to the real life that is yet to come. Have faith, show grace and give God your embrace!”
a conversation with a fictional character Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Natasha L Scragg
(Aslan, my character, is from The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe by C.S. Lewis)
February 20, 2022
Elytte and Miranda Barbour murdered a man just to get a thrill.
It is always very stupid and senseless when people kill.
They said they killed him because they wanted to kill someone together.
If you're wondering when they'll get out of prison, the answer is never.
They pled guilty to Second Degree Murder and other charges and got life.
Elytte will never be able to kill another person and neither will his wife.
When Troy LaFerrara answered the Barbours Craigslist ad, he didn't know he was in danger.
While in court, LaFerrara's loved ones were very furious and they expressed their anger.
The Barbours are only 22 and 19, they're young enough to be my kids.
If they were my children, I wouldn't forgive them for what they did.
(This is a true story about Elytte and Miranda Barbour who murdered Troy LaFerrara.)
Lovely hate crimes spate – trumpeted violent trend
(posthumous playful note to posterity kith unsealed
courtesy yours truly once deceased and cremated.)
Whew...so glad tubby gratefully dead
butta shaw miss dug hid ole days
when violence highly overrated
unlike current rooted locked dread,
aye wax poetically nostalgic when Fred
Rogers friendly persona
already quaintly outdated
mutinous armed militia incessant childish
popgun lawlessness pranks ran amuck
indiscriminately fired
magazine round as bullets sped
whizzing to and fro, hither and yon
slowed then stopped by flesh,
while folks nestled abed
bloody sheets, yupper reckon
shot blew hole head
off, no necks time
no matter innocent victim led
virtuous life kneadlessly,
purposelessly, unfairly...
stole by bullet size Grinch, hmm possibly
just maybe, he felt put off and miss sled
by Whoever, thus mad as hatter his said
color turned fifty shades of gray
mottled with fire engine red
now, no matter such innocent chitty chitty
bang bang ruses by duplicitous
hotheaded hooligans bred,
cuz instead every man, woman and child
blessed, donned, gifted... with atomic warhead
absolutely crazy, but president instead
wanted even Steven playing field to win votes,
no matter constituents begged and pled
naught necessarily in vain
since humanity in short shrift
cleared off terra firmae,
another foreign species immune
to radioactive fallout sprung
out Taj Mahal fountainhead
of atlas shrugged ayn rand dilly read
deed planet Earth proof positive Q.E.D
drafted fiat whereby high
powered weapons packing heated lead
plus scattered nuclear bombs
melted than repurposed material
i.e. former munitions armaments purchased
hoof hull legal black market
into raw bits moon units instead
necessary for android robots to tread
carefully, but carry big stick,
when encountering dreamy eyed electric sheep.
Never felt obliged
To ask the soil for her thoughts
Before I planted my seeds
Watered and weeded and fertilized
With hands guided by my heart
Not only do I doubt
If she would have given consent
I honestly don’t know
If she would have welcomed
My yearning soul into her home
Of warm, brown earth
Softened by sun and rain
Breathing only precious beads
Of dewdrop dreams
And autumn leaves decaying
Into the depths of her tenderness
Never once did I feel the need
To ask this loam for permission
To plant the flowers and vegetables
The fruits and scrumptious herbs
Which gave me so much sweetness
To feed my palette and vista
I wonder what she would have said
If I’d only asked, possibly pled
For the chance to plant a seed or two
Give into the soil’s longing for compost
To nourish her and give her sustenance
Cuisine made up of manure and muck
Meant to provide her with nutrients
Food to enliven, enlighten and brighten
Her dreams of good things so she’d thrive
Still, I remained silent in my guilt
Stealing her dirt with my shrubs
Never giving her the opportunity to say
If she was ok with my cultivating
Plowing and growing in her reservoir
Of soft, warm soil meant for a nursery
A garden of hopes and dreams and ideas
Gentle lights fading into the shadows
Behind the oaks and pines, where I grew
Truths that remembered to pray
For the sunshine and the rain
The food that would sustain
My stolen garden, grown without consent
From the heart of the earth’s glorious gifts