Long Presses Poems
Long Presses Poems. Below are the most popular long Presses by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Presses poems by poem length and keyword.
Whenever grief rushes to pierce sighs
Before night slowly lays itself down;
Trickles of drafts and verses ripple
On a white sheet as morn presses
Into rows and rows of lines, igniting my fingers
To etch lonely evenings, undefined: this head
Bows wired in a ruptured place that needs
A voice, a cry which moistens dim of eyes :
Then, lingering beneath a wave of stars
I heave over twilight's passage until
Gentler hours drift where ink bleeds vignettes,
Imbuing a language of hope that only
A canvas of words could speak on my behalf :
For in those brief glimpses the quill sparks,
Unable to be chained by a fire of expression.
Laura Loo's Any Poem Won in a Contest in November (not from mine)
Originally Written 11/2/2017
Contest: Enter A Poem Called, From My Diary Theme: Sadness
Re-submitted 12/4/2017
This barren winter, hurts my soul
As through the house, I slowly stroll
Thoughts flow about day, then splinter
Hurts my soul, this barren winter
Worries press my brain, God speaks way
Then splinter thoughts, flow about day
Being old, doesn't help thought's train
God speaks way as worry presses brain
If only once again could play youth's gold
Doesn't help thought's train, being old
If clear of mind, I'm now not sure
Dear Lord please, please help me endure
Please, please don't let my emotions wind
Now I'm not sure, if clear of mind
Help me dear Lord, write this like breeze
Don't let my emotions wind, please, please
Tattle tale Tessie is on my last nerve.
She tells on everyone with vigor and verve.
Before they do much Tessie is whining away.
Wearing down my good mood by the end of each day.
Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah she whimpers and whines.
Stressing me out before I have had my snack or my wines.
This boy did that and thoses other two girls did this.
Grating my nerves, she a down-in-the-mouth miss.
Here she comes up the sidewalk to talk to me.
I am hiding in my house, hoping my car she won’t see.
She presses the buzzer for fifteen minutes, yelling “tee hee”.
I simply cannot abide one more day listening to Tattle Tale Tessie.
Hiding under her blankets
The darker the better
....presses her button to drop the blinds
The darker the better.
The only light comes from the flicker of the horror movie
Where the hellovision screen is her mirror...it makes her feel at home.
Her clothes fit her well;
- Aching uncertainty
- Dark forebodings
- Tender pessimism
The mirror keeps reminding her.
The bottle of emptied Johnny Walker speaks:
"You've stopped walking",
The dropped blind says
"You've stopped seeing",
The mirror confirms:
"This is what you've become".
The arteries have hardened...her heart pumps without a beat.
With the press of a button
The blind can go up
The screen can stop its lies
The heater could fire up.
But in her caged freedom...
She has made her choice.
Her eyes narrow as she focuses harder on the screen...
The darker the better.
Note: this is a description of a women in her late 20's who lodged with a friend. This was her life in her room; empty whisky bottles, watching depressing shows on her Netflix account as she curls under her blankets. She was offered help, and a new identity in Christ....but she made her choice. How many more are there like her ?.
Mute
but immutable.
Unmoving, unmoveable;
timeless, yet tireless.
Solitary stalwart sentinel
surveils undulating horizon.
Aberrant, achromatic clouds
pock-mark the skies, as distant
rumblings herald his adversary's
latest gambit in their age-old conflict.
The wrath of a thousand crashing,
clashing, thrashing fists batter
against the beleaguered sentry.
Ceaselessly, remorselessly,
the maelstrom assails him.
But the foundations are firm and
noble gatekeeper stands steadfast.
Single-minded of purpose, placid
custodian morphs into combatant as
his luminous, voluminous blade carves
luminescent arcs through chthonic cloak.
Tenebrous tendrils wither and dissipate,
impotent under intense lambent onslaught.
His victory is only fleeting, as vanquished
foes are summarily supplanted by more of
their ilk in a seemingly continual surge.
Again and again, over and over, tormentor
presses the attack, exploiting any weakness.
Over and over, again and again, valiant warden
repels the barrage and despatches his enemies.
And so the pattern repeats endlessly, unabated,
as these eternal opponents jostle for position
in a perpetual cycle of aggression and defence.
Until eventually, finally, ultimately, the stale-mate
is broken; when Tempest's tantrum is tamed and
Blizzard's battalions have been banished, all is calm.
Tranquillity is able to reassert herself and order has
finally been restored; at least for the foreseeable future.
Obligations fulfilled, the triumphant Guardian can now rest.
Until the need arises again, until he's called upon once more,
he will wait patiently, watch diligently, in unflagging vigilance.
Forever resolute, a beacon of sanctuary, a symbol of hope, his is a
thankless task, but the Protector of Mariners will always be needed.
-----------------------------------
(C) John C Michaels, 27 July 2017
For Eve Roper's "Lighthouse" Contest.
(1st Place)
I plant a seed by the sea and allow faith and courage to water it for thee I watch it grow with the passing wind until the heaven above move the substance within and the avenue of hope breaks through the gate and daylight stares straight in my face and my spirit suddenly came alive and ignite the passion in the sky.
I woke up this morning with nothing on my mind, the universe was still and water began to pour from the hill and I said to myself where in the world would I want to be than in the presence of a stranger that cares for me; the one that knows how the world flex and what I do when I am out of breath, it is the other side of me that goes up in flame and bring down the sudden rain and mixes the water with the earth.
I watch the solemn minutes roll by but no one was there to attend to my silent cries so I ventured out in the avenue of hope, and there it was standing in the middle of the street blocking traffic passing on either sides of me. With strong optimism and favor from the sun, it clears the path around me and sets my spirit free and the wind rushes in.
How solid are your thoughts when enlightenment emerges from the skies and pulls you out of the dark; it drenches your soul with meekness, roll you on the ground with gentleness and presses it lips against the ages of time and everyone starts crossing on my side; they were coming by the hundred, the thousands and millions were walking by my side going to a place where peace and love abide and the olive seed sprang from the ground spreading its branches all around and the people flourished in various town .
And just across the distance we saw her sitting in a golden chair with a crown on top of her head beckoning the people to come, she stretched out her hands and they leaped towards the avenue of hope and Cleopatra received them in the town where destiny is bound, and they finally found a place that they can call home and for a hundred more years they could not roam.
The Avenue of home became their living sanctuary.
One day the lion will walk through the door and grab my tired and old arm,
My wrinkled arm, the one with which I threw the dice in the game of my life,
And I will scream in the bedroom, understanding nothing of the force with which it presses me,
It will be far too strong, and people will come to watch the spectacle.
A wife, a lover, an illegitimate son, a stranger from the street, and a doctor,
Will watch as the lion shows no interest in them, only in the arm it has taken,
When the arm is gone, the doctor will place his stethoscope on my chest,
He will say it might be shock and blood loss, but I already know that.
Now the lion takes my other arm, I try to hit it with my knee,
Its tail knocks a painting off the wall, a Dutch mill in the sun,
The day is beautiful, the world seems good, the dream of swimming envelops me,
But the lion does not relent, and the other arm disappears under its merciless force.
People kneel to pray, all except a silent doctor,
The lion tears at my chest, trying to reach my trembling heart,
I ask the doctor to light a cigarette for me, and he does so with mute sadness,
Then the priest enters, but the lion is not yet disturbed, it only devours me.
I've heard of the lion, how sometimes it is quick, other times slow and cunning,
I knew it prefers the old, but sometimes it catches even children or the young,
God, save me, I shout, but the people do not move from their places,
Let the lion devour me, the priest murmurs incantations incomprehensible to me.
The doctor turns his gaze to the window, it is July outside,
The air tastes like butter, and I become a memory fading quickly,
Before my eyes, I see moths, birds of prey, and angels burning in light,
The lion eats my heart, and the doctor silently places the sheet over my head.
It's early morning, very early, when decent people are still asleep,
Most with heavy breathing, a few making love in the dark,
And most are not like me, not yet, but time will change their fate,
Under the same morning light, they will find their way to their own truth.
"Cerberus Uncorrupted"
Every day I go to that box ...
at the top of the page,
left side, upper
its entry reads:
“What are you looking for?” -
waiting for an entry…
the brain presses a full stop,
the fingers hover and ripple
like a maestro leading a chorus
the fingers tap dance
poetically buying time
the heart tracks,
its silent voice speaks
piercing the suffocating silence
"the ability to read
what is meant to be read
front and centre, after all...
is said, and done"
the vision sits still in front of me
like a quaint loyalty and a strong desire
to understand it all
the innocence
of a mind uncorrupted
wide open
to the Light
that opens a heart
viscerally corrupted
waiting to be loved
waiting to be patted
the sun always setting
the sun always rising
calls unsilently
to me
Candide Diderot. ‘24
" ... "Do you love me yet?" Cerberus said..."
Sharon Osbourne, Short :
"Today my dog and I went to the beach and I caught her taking it all in"....
(this is the video you need to watch).
And as I walk behind the crowd
burden by the memory of my sins
red drops of mud did I see
of the dust in the blood he shed
and I wonder at the price
that he paid for my sin
each cut of the whip within his flesh
were they cut for my sin
which of the thorns in his flesh
were pressed there because of me
of my sins did he bleed
drops of blood for me shed
mocking crowd presses him on
driving to the place where he
nailed would be to wood of tree
from hammered spikes would he bleed
hearing I sick would be
pounding hammers driving through me
for my sins does he now pay
agony for that which I did
mocking soldiers did raise him up
pressing gall to his lips
in sick for horror did I watch
wishing I could set him free
streams of blood do float down
on the wood staining red
to the dust where I wait
waiting for the pain to end
to his father he does call
asking to forgive us
saying that his work is done
is and in life then does come
in the dark as I do wait
longing that my pain would end
knowing for my sins he paid
because of me his blood was shed
although darkness now this fill the sky
'tis nothing to the darkness within me
sorrowing for this things I've done
all the sins for which he has paid
and within a voice I heard
bringing me my sought for peace
I have died that you might live
my love for you will never end
and with hope I go my way
still sorrow within me lay
for my sins did he pay
with a love that will never end
What happens in a jungle at night
when you leave the winding path
in the evening in a thick forest?
What scenes wild animals create—
what dreadful shapes move in the dark
among birds and trees,
you never truly know.
How terrible the wind may sound,
how silence presses
on every living soul.
The green leaves of the trees
seem to fade to yellow
under the weight of dark shadows.
The whole night is alive
with strange, unheard sounds—
a whisper of twigs,
a flutter of wings,
a rustle moving unseen.
It is like when you sleep at night—
you never truly know
where you are,
where your soul travels.
Yet when morning comes,
the jungle turns gentle and bright.
It looks like a fairyland,
full of life and quiet blessings.
Nothing seems strange;
no trace of the fearful night remains.
Just as when you wake in the morning—
refreshed and peaceful,
unaware of the storms
that passed while you slept.
Perhaps we do not need
to know everything.
Some shadows are kinder
when left unnamed.
Keep moving toward what matters.
Much happens around us,
yet entangling ourselves in every mystery
can shake confidence,
make the spirit fragile,
and disturb the quiet of the heart.