Long Ravaged Poems
Long Ravaged Poems. Below are the most popular long Ravaged by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ravaged poems by poem length and keyword.
I roam into a tunnel of ebon night
when stars crumble like grated ash,
the remnants of a heavy day fills
a bleak alley with rubble and debris--
Somehow, the howl of life grows
ghastly, creepy : stray dogs lapping piles
of left-over food in a garbage thick
with ravaged bones, while breezes
laugh at my emptiness mocking
time’s losses and farewells...I bleed
upon the fangs of anguish defying
this phantom within me that lurks, hollers
loud as I slip into the void
of endless black : my lungs cry,
while my knees tumble
on rough cement: and an old man
strums haunted notes from his stale corner…
an overture to a raw, insolent flight.
I Am-
tattered pages yellow and old-
pulled from the book
of her life
the pages written in blood
the journal of a girl
with sadness unbearable
it will shatter your heart
reader
was her world ever wonderful
poor dear
so much pain and tears
written in blood
she hides behind raven hair
she writes pages and pages
it's
one
long
ravaged
garden
let me read a bit
written
in
blood
today dear dairy
my sister died
and I cried
and cried
grandma said
she was an angel now
why
why grandma why she writes
she's only eight years old
I must turn that page
the
pain
is too much
Here let me read another
dear diary
we dressed him in an ivory gown
and placed
him in his coffin
grandma said he's an angel now
why grandma she writes
why he is just a baby boy
and it goes on and on
pages
written
in blood
tattered pages yellow and old
was her world ever wonderful
there is more
pages
and pages tattered
she writes of the death of her true love
her parents
her beloved grandma
her loved pets
but I cannot read anymore
so
I must
close the book
of her life thus far
________________________________
May 17, 2016
Poetry/Free Verse/Tattered Memories
Copyright Protected, ID 16-791-517-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
For the contest _____________ Memories
sponsor, PD
Fourth Place
When I was a young girl death took my hand,
and over the years has become my friend:
the cemetery more like a woodland,
with sorrow I go beyond and transcend;
of death many words I have penned.
I recall those rooms full of scented rose,
tears falling that are now shadows in time:
my life was ravaged- my heart and soul froze,
but, now this place of tears is where birds chime;
like a sweet symphony sublime.
And in my last gasp- death will hold my hand;
leading me towards that heavenly land.
______________________
March 20, 2023
Poetry/Rhyme/Death: My Bed Of Roses
Copyright Protected, ID 03-1532-879-20
All Rights Reserved, 2023, Constance La France
Written for the Standard contest, A Simple Poetry Contest
sponsor, John Lawless, Judged 03/30/2023
Eighth Place
Corona is becoming a field
For cultivating politics,
Political crop may be ripened
Putting risk to the public.
Hindu-Muslim deadly virus
Is dangerous than corona,
It is time for global piece
Not to do ‘Baba’ or ‘maulana’.
Man may be mortal
But humanity remains alive,
Where humanity got raped
Human chain can’t survive.
I adore innovative politics
That strengthen our race,
We should leave that game
That blackening our face.
Please don’t try to cut
The branch where you sit,
Once arrow left from bow
You lost control on it.
You may rule like ‘Hitler’
Putting the nation in danger.
When nation will be ravaged
It will become your killer.
Polio and small pox got killed
Starvation taken long rest,
Please believe both God & science
They will sure give best.
Don’t try to catch the fish
Putting poison in water,
Once whole water will be poisoned
You will be no more forever.
========================
NB : Baba means Hindu sage
I have grown old and twisted with all my living;
my limbs gnarled and arthritic,
my skin rough, sometimes peeling,
turning dark beneath the sun.
Bunions and corns decorate my feet.
What a life I have lived!
In my youth, young natives sat on tender grasses at my feet;
i sheltered them in coolness,
i listened to their vows of love.
Months later, they returned to me holding the joy of new life.
I rocked their papoose in my arms,
the wind sighing lullabies through my evergreen hair
making the silver moss, hanging on my tresses, sway.
I saw them leave before the growing strength of new settlers,
weeping as they walked away from this beloved land.
A wealthy man settled the grounds where I spread my roots;
I grew and wrapped my arms around the home he built.
I was young then, strong and full of vigor;
I was the watchman at the door.
I enjoyed many years with the family,
playing with the children,
giving shade and shelter.
Early one morning, the sounds of war disturbed my sleep;
all day the battle raged.
Cannon balls ripped through my flesh;
I heard the anguished screams.
When the sun set,
the ground beneath my feet was littered
with the broken bodies of men,
dead and dying,
soldiers uniformed in both blue and gray.
Our beautiful home was nearly destroyed,
our land ravaged.
If men could only learn, as I know,
to respect and care for one another.
As time passed, my limbs healed,
through scarred, just as my heart is scarred.
Generations have come and gone,
each one passing close to my heart in fleeting succession,
but I live on.
Age shows on my body, yet I cling more tightly,
stretching deep into the ground, sucking the earth's sweet nourishment.
My arms droop low, hanging heavy with sad and happy memories.
I do not want to leave this dear, fair earth,
the tears of heaven fall,
trickling down,
bathing me in dewy sadness.
A thousand years is not enough.
Copyright, August 22, 2015
Faye Lanham Gibson
My life has been a tangled path, a ravaged garden follows my journey always.
Since a child I have lived with death's hand upon me, we are sort of friends by now.
Death has taken everyone I loved. The list is long, the names engraved in stone.
Oh yes, I am somewhat forlorn and write my sadness and pain in poems, so true.
But, inside me burns a fire, inside my soul there is life and hope. No matter what
happens to me, how many times death visits, how many times I have to start new,
I have hope in my future and have never, ever lost hope in the Lord.
each day there is life
in the songs of birds that fly-
let me spread my wings
___________________________
April 29, 2016
Poetry/Haibun/Senyru/"Hope Is For Real
Copyright Protected, ID 16-783-981-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
For the contest, Hope
sponsor, Nayda Ivette Negron
Eighth Place
As I climb the steps of no tomorrow.
I'll keep my love close until my last breath.
Give me a final kiss without sorrow,
For these gallows will give me my death.
No justice is found for my innocence.
Show them no weakness or flowing tears.
They are hanging me now for my silence.
This town is ravaged by their angry fears.
Only with sweet memories look back.
Remember the last moments our eyes met,
And wear red to my gravesite, never black.
Carve innocent where my name is inset.
So cold the dark eyes of the hangman.
Oiled is the rope that will slip ever tight.
Laughter will fill the crowd as I hang there.
No care is given, they believe they are right.
8/25/15
The story of my life will give you many facts:
How life beat me down and I wanted to run away,
All the tragedies of my youth, all those acts
Made me the poet you see this day:
Oh, how I struggled and so often wept at night,
I climbed out of a pit of sorrow, into a blue sea:
And I write the pain, write the tears, write
You see, sharing my ravaged life has saved me.
I pen all my poems in blood, sighing for each one
Even if critics try to wreck my poetic home:
Over the years my scribbles have developed a skill
I listen to the words in my head when all is still:
Words swirling and I won't stop until my pen is done
Unraveling the puzzle, whispering in my poetic dome:
___________________
May 27, 2017
Rhyme/Who Am I
Copyright Protected, ID 904881
Written for the contest, Rhyme Battles, Round 6
Juli-Michelle
Ninth Place
The Monk of Mock has fled the flock caught knocking up a tween.
(She brought to light the special rite he sought to leave unseen.)
With profaned eyes they agonise, their souls no more serene
and at the shrine the flutes of wine are filled with kerosene
by men unkempt who once had dreamt but now can dream no more
except when bellowed bellies belch an ever growing roar,
which churns the seas and whips a breeze that mercy can’t ignore,
and in the night, though filled with fright, they try to end the War.
The slow and quick are hurling bricks and fight with clubs of rage
to break the chains and cleanse the stains of life within a cage,
but yield to stings of armoured things that crush in every age.
At crack of dawn, a broken pawn, in pools of blood and fire,
attends the wounds, in blood festooned (the waves flow nigh and nigher),
while ghetto towns are burning down (the flames grow high and higher);
and in their wake, a golden snake is rising from the pyre.
Her knees are bare, consumed in prayer, applauded by the Friar,
and soon it’s clear the end is near - while magpie birds conspire,
the lowly worm is made to squirm while dangling from a wire.
The line was crossed, the battle lost, the losers can’t deny,
the residues are far and few, though smoke pervades the sky.
The cool wind’s cruel, a cutting tool, the vanquished ask it “Why?”,
and bittersweet, from Easy Street, the Pashas’ puffed reply:
“The rules are set, so don’t forget, the rabble will comply;
the grapes of wrath may make you laugh, the day you are to die.”
The down and out, they knock about beneath the barren skies
where homeward bound, without a sound, a ravaged raven flies.
Beyond the Walls, the morning calls the newborn sun to rise,
and Peter Pan, a broken man, inclines his head and cries...
End
Inspired by “The Sick Child” painting by Edvard Munch
A pale face, all happiness drained out!
green and auburn lines - vertical and horizontal,
swirl around her in abundance,
except her face... devoid of any colour!
A drooping dried flower almost ready to fall,
return to the soil!
Feeble and declining - from exhaustion,
ailing and haunted - her expression!
A young girl of fifteen…bedridden for many months!
disease has crippled her, lying in bed she hopelessly
gazing towards an ominous white curtain...
a symbol of death!
clutching hands of a woman for comfort,
who can not look at her knowing it's all futile.
Her eyes have lost the lustre and hope they once possessed,
chestnut russet hair encircling the fatigued face of a maiden,
who once was a bubbling cheerful child,
Disease ravaged a budding flower!
The final moment has come!
PLACED FIFTH
All colours of lustre and hope drained from a young face,
She wears green....
Green and auburn lines playfully swirl around her…but,
Disease has crippled her for many months,
She clutches hands of her mother, when her eyes are vacant,
Chestnut russet hair encircling the fatigued face of a fifteen year old!
Final moment has come…
A white ominous curtain is all she gazes at…
A drooping flower, ready to fall!