Long Ragged Poems
Long Ragged Poems. Below are the most popular long Ragged by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ragged poems by poem length and keyword.
Sad news keep me awake;
Counting stars through the ceiling,
Hiding from the sun under my blanket,
Racing about inside my tiny room,
With a mind so agitated and delirious.
With a heart quivering with fibrillations.
And lungs gasping for air under resting conditions.
Lying down on my old ragged mattress;
Pacing around and coiling in this furnace,
Of heat and warmth and sweat on a cold night!
Thirsting for a gallop of wine,when water is no more,
Yawning for yams,when potatoes have gone bad.
I think along an endless journey,
That I believe will never end in my time.
Reminding me of that appointment,
With a surgeon on my birthday Eve,
Leaves my peace in pieces.
It literally kills me alive,
Through the free long nights it gives me-
Like it did not see me yearn for more darkness,
To hide my face from the light of day-
When my name had been dragged to shame.
I'm moving along with the clock-
Impatiently waiting for granny's cock to crow,
When,at the arrival of dawn,
I will stand to face my fears-
Holding back my anxiety and worries.
Lest I dance to the tune of depression!
Or even cardiac arrest during the anaesthesia.
I will dress lightly and mask it up,
Beautify my face with borrowed smiles,
While I glow,thanks to petroleum jelly.
I will hold my bag and wave at my little boy,
Telling him I have gone to the salon-
And that I shall return to breastfeed him.
Into the hands of my maker I put tomorrow.
For I don't know what it has in store for me;
Fresh or stale peas,time will tell!
And my faith, I lift to the heavens,
Looking to them for rescue angels-
That will take me out of the bowels ,
That sit between life and death.
Ampurire Anitah.
FRAGILITY
reorientated
&displayed
in
rigorous
sharp lines
top &bottom
stripes
with
ragged ends
rectified
in the
vertical
signalled
detailed
illustrated
then
enlivened
in
partial patterns
by
well-estalished
influences
always
pyrrihic
invaluable
in
duration
embracing
the
mood loomed
a
quantitive
signature
NOTE:THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE using spaces&breaks without grammatical symbols ,the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' (intuitive cadence)& so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and responds thus making this enigmatic form a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood is inherently variable.
"it’s been torn, and tattered, and broken apart, but keep me vulnerable and broken open, please stay my tender heart" – author, butterflies rising
My heart is tattered; oh were it made of
a cloth like cotton, ragged it would be
because of one who tore from me his love.
Cruel words brought misery to me.
Although my heart at one time had been strong,
his constant tearing at my heart produced
unraveling of it before too long.
Soft words he used on me at first seduced
me, but his words then later would become
as sharp as fabric scissors to my heart.
What beat once like a drum had now grown numb
because in shreds it has been torn apart.
A mending I’m in need of to restore
my heart with the sweet hope it once beat for.
Continued from Part 1
The Beggars ’neath the balustrades,
and broken Children, Chambermaids,
are running wild from wraiths, afraid
of dreams where death redoubles.
They fritter time with tattered threads
(from ragged clothes they’ve left in shreds),
crocheting hoods to hide their heads
and faces, full of rubble.
But many things will not remain
the Morning of the Hurricanes,
when goblets filled with cool champagne
evaporate in bubbles.
The White-Robed Maid adorns the trash
with charnel urns awash in ash,
then fumbles with an untied sash
while pacing in the Palace.
Her hopes congeal in coffee spoons
with memories adrift in dunes;
yet, still she smiles with teeth like prunes
and lips of painted callus.
And long before the midnight drains,
the Saviour wakes, the Loser gains,
the waters of the Hurricanes
will fill her empty chalice.
The storm (behind the clarinets,
the silver flutes, the castanets,
the foghorns belching in quartets,
the bagpipes, puffed and swollen)
is keeping time to tambourines
while Tom Thumb and the Four-Inch Queen,
pick up the shards and smithereens
of moments lost or stolen.
They’re trekking through the Dim Domains
(where fountains weep, the mountain wanes),
yet can’t escape the Hurricanes
with trundling eyes patrollin’.
The Crowds (arrayed in jewels) in jails,
stoop, peering through a fence of nails
while light behind their eyeballs pales
with plastic flame that sputters.
They huddle there because they must
(with eyelids hung like peeling rust,
their tears, palled pellets in the dust),
behind the bolted shutters.
They’ll reawake without their pains
the Morning of the Hurricanes,
without their sores, without their stains,
their agonies will fill the drains
and overflow the gutters.
End
A book is the beginning of a prayer born of hope, faith and love discovered within the pages of some writer’s glistening ink - quote by poet
Dust piled in layers
On books and anthologies, laying
Silently along the shelves
Where my thoughts would reveal
Endless moments spent traveling
Through page after page
Of poetry and promises
Pure, potent prayers
Praising with ink
Reading like an embrace
To the heart and the soul
Of one who knows that life
Lived on the ragged edges
Of a paperback dream
Is a life lived in light, laughter
Love that grows wilder
With each passing prayer
Yearning for a chance to whisper
Thank you in God’s ear
For the music of mystery
The longing in literature
The friend in fiction
The praise in poetic prose
The rushing winds beneath
A romance beckoning for joy
Found within the creased pages
Of history and happiness
A book is a brilliant blaze
Of inspiration and hope
A colorful creation crafted
On the empty page
As it’s filled with delight
Insight, a stirring of faith
Falling across the spirit in waves
Of grace and inspirational
Musings to reach out to the one
Who knows that a book holds the key
To creativity in tears of
Sensitivity and soothing solace
Awakening the mind to knowledge
The heart to feelings fully alive
And the spirit to the warmth
Of a soft, gentle affection
It has been with me my whole long life,
Wafted on the gentle breezes of the wind,
It's followed me;
Down the ragged pathways of my mind.
It was in the rain that washed the parched places in my heart,
And I found it yet again strewn all about;
In the forest of my dreams.
As I held a lonely vigil in the night.
It surrounds me and I reach to touch it;
But it flits away on vibrant, butterfly wings.
I cannot quite catch it, but it is there.
Circling always lightly round my head.
I see it looking back at me behind a smoky glass,
I press my hands hard against the pane.
But the shadow is all that I can see,
And the weakest flicker of a flame.
There is wisdom to be found among the stars.
Secrets hidden in the chambers of our minds.
We do not know, and yet we can't forget;
What we are we do not understand.
We are more than what we think or know.
And what we know our minds cannot express.
Yet through all our labor and our tears,
We hold the knowledge that we are more than this.
Poor human, tired, confused and weak.
Stumbling onward in a marathon of pain,
Cattle led to slaughter and alone,
Fodder for some Demon war machine.
What is it that we are?
What is this knowledge hidden in our hearts?
Whispered by the sirens in the storm,
Is it some charade or cruel Joke?
Yet somehow, we still believe,
For it is hidden deep within our souls,
We cannot know and yet we can't forget;
That we were made for so much more than this.
Earth Creatures, born from muck and mire.
Dare we lift our heads and view the stars?
For our hearts know it is our right to dream.
For once we were kissed by God.
You tango, you twirl in tangerine tails,
With ragged red’n’black blouse and shoes
Little leather flimsy flopsy boots with dinky tink balls,
Balls that ding a ling to amuse
The crowd's at the court in front of the king,
Your mandolin plays a short song,
A song that brings smiles to everyone’s eyes,
Making everyone sing right along
And then you swing your motley cap’n’bell hat,
Beaded bells all bounce to a beat
As you juggle and joke and tell a beautiful story,
Your magic’s an invisible discrete.
Everyone’s happy when you perform for the king,
Everyone loves you in town
You're the king’s street performer in red and black stripes,
His jester, his fool, you’re his clown.
Awarded 5th place in contest entry
It started with an apple in paradise or was it a date they consumed
Had they kept their clothes off laundry day would have been easier
The smell of seduction and no fake news
Honestly who cares whether it was pure sex or sweet requited love
Darwin had his way and they followed a journey to un-heavenly bliss
Candied peel from a fruit of nibbling temptation
It was a Saturday and procreation their Christian duty to comply
With the rule of nature to mix seeds in fertile pastures of joy
Russian roulette from a gene pool of ancestral relief
I hear you say its the parents’ fault that happiness mutated
Into a warm gun with too many bullets to the beat of a drum
Golden delicious pipped kernels for conquest
Peaceniks taken to task for one simple innocent transgression
A nudist colony abandoned in the name of belligerent arrows
Collateral damage and indiscriminate targets
The story stemmed from every one begetting each other’s brethren
Breathless cohabitation under the watch of place time and poppies
Fig leaves of duty and denuded trees
Kalashnikovs draped on the snake’s slithering sleaze and corruption
Corporates bonking for virginity and testimony of final selection
Dripping deceit like custard on rotten flesh
Under a mushroom cloud hell fire dispenses irrefutable evidence
That the emperor’s garments are ragged down to a lice infested core
Adam and Eve seek asylum in a mental ward
Bedlam bound in shackles to the jester’s snide mocking applause
Psychotropic injections to remedy catatonic results of one violation
Rape pillage and plunder and Satan as a voyeur
Field brothels and comfort women un-sheath prickly pears in disguise
Persimmon dishes out passion steeled in sharp blades of the paring knife
And so we choke on what should have been celestial food
Pious and devoted to whipped cream and second helpings of anger
We feed on desolate fields and irrigate fear suffocation and slaughter
Eves of destruction and her toy boy sheds venom and pain
25th January 2020
Treasure in trash found in victimless friends..
discord in off laughter holds just the same.
Their voice in frailty, not yours in the end,
only this why they remember your name.
Wipe your mouth on the street wi' ragged sleeve,
though eugh, surely mother would disapprove.
For want of only the best and you believe,
a fine dust you shook but failed to remove.
To God's watchers, entrust you matter more,
born t'this foreign world, naked and afraid.
From mother' womb warm her precious life bore,
truest bond in lasting love ever made..
See clearly the road unburdened for two
nature watches in awe, life made for you.
aside from being worn
during mortal kombat firmly braced
full body armor suited up
with proctologists safely positioned
most definitely
entire body electric en cased
ready as ever to confront
another flatulence emitting *******
solidly debased
strategically situated,
when beginning examination
sterile sighted rectal
probe positioned nimbly,
kept intact, finessed
fixedly, exactly, deftly crosshairs
with trace excrement carefully erased
scrutinizing pulsating rectum sphincter muscle
observing anus function
a posteriori mesne faced
with quotidian regular onslaught
moving bowels graced
significant muscled tissued
sphincter requisitely
performing perfectly lining interlaced
without any unusually turgid,
significantly ragged, or quirkily
plugged orifice
preventing human waste,
thus if hazardous condition ensued necessitating
immediate surgery without haste
perhaps even ass sass mint
by a gastroenterologist
if patient suffers from
irritable bowel syndrome
where fore (Juliet) defecation sanitized
scrutinizing expulsion of human waste,
or if defecation thick as petrified paste
which warrants squeezing tight
begetting a hemorrhoid
as son young (gush) moon like cheeks
put thru severe weathering pace.