Long Recollection Poems
Long Recollection Poems. Below are the most popular long Recollection by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Recollection poems by poem length and keyword.
Proverbs 8:17 (KJV) - I love them that love me; and those that seek me early shall find me.
Before the sun crosses the mountains,
Slightly misty just beyond the seas –
There is a passion rising up in my spirt,
A need to chase after the fire, the brilliance
Of the One who silences the wind,
Glistens in the stars and remembers that my
Peace abides because He lives, because
He survives the darkest dread, the doubt
And the despair that create such fear in my head
Before the sunlight reflects the dew glittering
On the leaves, embracing the skinny branches,
Healing the soul with a colorless beauty,
A breathe of richest peace, silencing the darkness
Erasing the worst storms with a powerful
Beauty, a recollection of the sparkling stars,
Shimmering beyond the reach of a heart who
Only remembers the ache, the torturing touch
Feelings, both woeful and willful, urging
My soul to reach out to the One who colors
The entire world in a serenity that flows with light,
A brilliant stream of His paradise – whispering…
Before the morning kisses my cheek, there is a
Sense of the reflections brought to life by Him,
His gentle truth, His sacred reach into my soul
Where I sincerely believe – He is my reason
He is my hope – He makes a way through the sorrow,
He fills me up with a desire as I reach toward the fire
The passion that He stirs when He breathes love
Through the aching spirit that sighs freedom into
The prison of my doubts and fears, erasing the worry
Wiping away each tear with the assurance
That He is alive, inside, where He covers me in grace
That abounds and tears down every wall,
Each sorrow is released to the stars and the
Worst memories, the worst of the past…
Is gone like the hardness that once lived in my heart
He is a good, good God – and my love for Him
Is a love that says, “He spreads His laughter, His
Music, His breath of kindness and creativity…
Through my soul, where I know – I can always be
Certain that He is ALIVE and He is giving me a
Promise of the future, when I’ll be with Him in paradise –
Thanks to His greatest blessing, His greatest sacrifice…
The reason that I’m able to know Him like I do –
Because of His death and His rising – I can know the
Meaning of life, the meaning of love, the meaning
That draws each breath into a smile with that RISING SON!
Old Zack Adams sits a slouch’n so sloppy drunk on a bar-room stool,
Wear’n his cheap-threaded cowboy suit and a stained satin shirt.
All the while a peek’n and a leer’n at women like an old poor fool,
But think’n man tonight—Oh Boy, I’m really gonna hit the pay dirt!
Old Zack in this small Texas town is reputed to be quite a lecherous hoot,
As he raucously and recklessly rolls old worn quarters into the slot
Of the old bar-room Wurlitzer while snicker’n and smil’n to boot,
And plays his tearful and twangy jerk-water music while smil’n a lot!
Old Zack is this town’s “Jukebox Gigolo,” a real lover boy—Oh Boy!
He wears his patched cowboy hat and his scuffed silver-studded boots,
Meant to impress young girls and bar-fly floozies who have the Joy!
Of being with this bewildering, withered, weathered man and his boots.
Old Zack has a fad’n recollection of events and a silver mane of hair,
With a cigarette in his hand and cuss’n like a nasty little stable boy,
He downs whiskey shots and tequila seconds like no tomorrow on a dare,
While chas’n whiskey glass ice cubes and the tequila worm—being so coy.
Old Zack while a swigg’n down his whiskey mucho fast and direct,
He has now that blind courage to fight or to love—whichever is first,
While the old Wurlitzer resonates a rueful hick song for a teary effect,
But Old Zack can’t move now for this song has him sobb’n the very worst.
Old Zack with his nicotine-whiskey breath and his pockmarked face,
Personifies the image of an ideal loser of a man—with problems all,
While fight’n, scream’n, and punch’n others to gain some precious space,
He’s a showcas’n his reservoir of manly prowess—with problems all.
Old Zack was young once and not so wild, withered, weathered like now,
And he thought he was a really smart dude—all right moves and all,
But was really a man act’n far above his funny fake smart brow,
And now a cry’n on his bar-room stool and act’n like a fool before a fall.
Old Zack Adams—alcoholic as he truly is and sly and slick as a Texas fox,
Is not really so good with his women friends nowadays—for his real talent
Is in roll’n those old worn quarters pieces one-by-one into the old Jukebox,
Sing’n—“I’m the Jukebox Gigolo”—“a Drunk and a Delight,” that’s real talent!
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved (October 7, 2014)
(Rhymed Quatrain)
He never knew the girl that wrapped her body in self-pity the nights she spent alone with no one else to warm her, blaming herself for every bad thing in her world.
He didn't know the girl that bathes her self in tears the nights shes too afraid of her self to shower because it was the only place her thoughts had a clear shot at every part of her being.
He never knew the girl that wouldn't eat in the morning because it made her feel sick. Wouldnt eat in the afternoon because she had work to catch up on. Wouldnt eat at night because she was too tired the days before she would see him.
He didn't know the girl that whenever she said she was 'sick' it was from searching the bottom of her stomach. Removing any vice form her mortal she could find. And not because of the flu.
Even her herself never knew the girl that felt so out of place in the world that she believed she shouldn't be there.
She'd wake up hours later dazed from the happenings before,
her head lightened from the pounding of her skull against her walls.
She'd wake up with no recollection of the buckets of tears she tried to drown herself in or the breaths she lost from smothering herself until she fell into unconsciousness.
She wouldn't remember trying to erase her imperfections she would only wake up to them multiplied.
She'd never wake up with the memory of the war but always with the battle scars.
She'd tell her self it was okay and that she knew she was beautiful, that knew she was important to this world. Forgiving herself for the way she's been treated and feeding her mind empty promises of change.
The boy that she would never admit that she loved standing in front of her never knew how much she hated herself but now he did. She's the reason this boy whose smile could light up the world was staring at her with tears in his eyes.
The same eyes that resembled the loving hues of blue that laid on the seas and if you stared into them for too long their soft currents could lull you to sleep. But his eyes looking down at her right now were nothing like the peaceful currents of the sea. His black pupils were surrounded by the darkest blues from the angriest parts of the ocean. The waves crashing and churning, threatening to spill over his lashes and down his beautifully porcelain cheeks.
And for that, she could never forgive her self.
Form:
I woke up one morning in a world full of lost things,
with no recollection of how i got there.
They curled around me and taunted me, examined me carefully with their hands so that they could better see me.
And when they found my ears they whispered in voices so soft I could scarcely discern if they spoke at all,
and told me of epic lovers until we bled together.
They shared with me what it would be like to be a lost thing too.
So full of inaccessible power, of sinful yearning, wanton longing, so full of empty space.
And then they presented me with a second hand clock,
small and brass and on a chain for my pocket so that I may never lose it.
They showed me and told me "fill it."
Then they felt behind my eyes and turned my senses higher,
Made everything so bright and lovely that it caused me terrible pain.
But with it I made life. I made such wonderful oceans,
I fostered worlds and tried to use them to follow out what I had been commanded.
And when the hands on my watch no longer ticked beneath the weight,
I forgot there was ever anything before my silent command "fill it."
Their voices ring out like angels,
they still sing to me of lovers. I want to sing too.
But the next thing they touched was my mouth,
and from it removed all its memories
yet left and burned in it the faintest ghost of what it would be like to ever have felt.
So that in its efforts to resurface,
it forgot how to speak.
At night, though less over time, (and I had long since lost track of that),
the other lost things will weave themselves around me like slippery shades,
and nuzzle into my neck as a purring kitten until I let them into my arms for the evening.
They'd hold me down and keep me awake as they sang to me foreign folk songs.
Occasionally they would break their song, and wait for me to pick up their melody,
and when I would it sounded too conspicuously like wailing.
They'd be gone.
I am not ready and I am not even sure for what.
I think about deliverance,
but less so with every passing phantom tick.
It is beautiful here, or so I think. I have no comparison.
There are so many oceans.
It's a wondrous case of Stockholm I'm sure,
but nonetheless a purposeful one.
One of vivacious heartache, of my own design,
When the lost things, my strange companions, come for me again and find me,
and we find other lost things -like me,
And we make worlds together.
That goofball husband of hers brought her to this joint to see her get drunk for the very first time. She actually plugged her nose trying to sip her first glass of beer. Good grief. 20 minutes and she barely finished it. She walked to the restroom and I felt her teetering just a little bit. She likes the feeling though, I can tell! I sure liked it when she started boogying to the beat of the band on her way back to the table. Too bad Mr. dingbat won’t ever dance with her. She keeps tapping her hands on the table to the rhythm of the music. That’s why I have to write so slow. . . .
Now she’s tryin ta drink another beer but she can hardly stand it an her husband sez come on don’t ya wanna know how it fills ta be drunk? She says well at list I fill buzzd now. . .
The nice buzz wore off. It’s at least an hour later. She and hubbie got this idea to go to the liquor store. First time she ever went to one. She thought maybe brandy would taste better so then she could drink something stronger and know how it felt to be drunk. Brandy sounded sweet and fruity to her. Boy was she wrong. She took a little taste and it burned going down. That stuff sucks just like the beer. . . .
Wow she jus finisht tha hole boddle rily fast lik mebbie ten minuts ago so she kud fil drunk an she put me down ta finnish tha boddle in one shot now she kant evin kip her eyez opun UH ohhhhhhh
Epilogue: The preceding narration was based on actual fact. Upon consuming an entire bottle of brandy in less than ten minutes, "she" immediately passed out, and I recall she awoke in the morning having forgotten everything that transpired once she fell asleep. Furthermore, when she went into the bathroom the next morning and saw some flecks of vomit on the walls, she was quite amazed. Why? Because she had no recollection of throwing up, and she realized her goofball husband had actually attempted to clean up a mess in their house for the first time in their young married life!!!
By the way, Jenny, if you happen to be reading this, Shhhh. Please do not tell her other sisters. It would surely get back to you guys’ mother, and your poor upstanding church-loving mom might have a heart attack to hear of her daughter’s one transgression with the devil’s brew! Sincerely, Her Sober (albeit sometimes fanciful) Pen
All. Day. Long.
I sit there, in my chair, All. Day. Long.
Glaring at people I hate.
The people who are but mere memories.
Mere dust in the wind.
All that I know has blown away,
taken by my faulty actions.
The dull replay of Meteora fills my room with lyrical insanity,
tempting me with beat and anger.
But I’ve realised it’s not the music that’s dull.
It’s myself. I am dull.
Dull, empty, detached, dead.
My actions have caused this, my mental instability.
My arms and wrists, they’re crisscrossed with faint pink patterns,
the product of my attempts at reattachment and relief.
Eternal smiles of violet beneath my eyes, wrinkles surround my lips.
My skin, yellow from the drugs, reflects weakly the sunlight from outside.
I blame everyone but myself, my personality rotten to the core.
My lungs, as well, shredded by smoke that acted like needles.
I couldn’t help myself, I jest in my mind.
I’ve been trying to shove the blame onto something but myself,
only to find there is nothing to blame but myself.
My body has been wracked to this state,
a state well beyond my mere 29 years.
My mind, hanging from a cliff.
Threatening to free fall at any moment.
As I sit there, in my chair,
memories of an age long gone from my life flash before my eyes.
A girl I loved, laughing.
Her and I lying in the grass, at a lake’s edge.
A cat akin to night, eyes green as mine, purring softly in my lap.
Flashes of guns, from a war forgotten by all but me.
As I reminisce these memories, a spark of feeling—pain.
Upwelling in my gut.
Through my chest.
Stabbing into the side of my head.
The pain triggers a new wave of recollection.
Again, the girl. My mind so foggy I can’t remember her name.
Dancing slowly to a song no longer heard of.
Snow. A blush of the cheeks. Hands in mine, warming and comfortable.
The pain in my head intensifies, blinding me.
I fall from my chair, the first time I’ve moved all day. In 2 days.
Shaking my head, I pull myself up. Standing, I look around.
Another flash of pain, followed by a sensation I’d all but forgotten.
Her lips. At dusk. The very first time.
I stumble away from an unseen being, crashing into the wall.
Blinking my eyes furiously, I right myself.
Waiting a moment, I sit back down.
And let the dullness take over, the pain ebb away,
and the memories to replay.
All. Day. Long.
There were seven Indian Government schools. All built alike. The
one I'm writing about is Spring Creek. He Dog, Soldier Creek and White River,
Grass Mountain, Two Kettle, and Black Pipe were the other schools. The
Headquarters for these schools was at Rosebud, South Dakota.
On some summer evenings we were able to talk our mothers into
hiking to the lookout tower. We followed the ankle deep sandy trail road to the
cliff north of the school., A canyon lay at the foot of the tower but we climbed the
bluff. I don't know why we didn't explore the canyon unless it seemed dark and
sinister. The footing was better once we reached the summit. The closer we got
to the tower the taller it grew and standing at the foot of the steps looking up was
easier than getting to the top and looking down. My mother didn't usually make it
to the top because she didn't like heights. But she didn't mind being left behind
this time. We never could get into the building at the top because it was locked,
but we could climb the steps to the very last one. Even my little sister managed
to elude mom and followed us to the top.
From the bluff we could look down on the garden. My aunt grew a
huge garden and canned the produce for the hot meals served the school
children. We kids didn't work in the garden very often, but we looked for the arrow
heads and fossils. Which, I suspect the adults probably considered the best
place for us.
At the end of the road, living in shack, was Old Lady Grease. I have a
vague recollection of seeing her. Tiny, frail, wrinkled and gray headed is all I can
remember.
In spring and fall we were in school in Kansas.
It's Christmas now. Cold and usually snowy. We were in a winter
wonder land.
I'm standing at the fire escape window. The ghostly pale full moon is
illuminating the naked arms of the trees as they shiver in the wind, swaying to
and fro as if dancers in a ballet. I listen to the winter sounds. The frigid air
enhances their sharpness. The ax's thud echoes up the canyon as one of the
Indians across the river chops another supply of wood. One of his peers beats
on the drum. It is one-thirty a. m. but the thin walls of the tents do not keep the
cold out. Day or night this chore must be attended to for survival.
A hundred years have come and gone
to what wonder and tragedies
have you belonged?
My father:
Born in the aftermath of a world at war
danced to the flappings of the twenties roar,
a time when poverty and wealth wore torn in two
when the future feared depression's loom;
just a young man filled with wide-eyed dreams in bloom
where would steps move
in the prophetic ravings?
the Dust Bowl blackened clouds with farmers braving
drowning anthems of a Star-Spangled banner still waving
and the solo flight of history
forever remains a mystery;
political isms rise in freedoms slow demise
while Hollywood reviews the movies
in truth and lies;
the end of an era welcomed in the shanty towns
as Europe recovers with a parade of suicidal clowns;
off to war drafting historic days of infamy
when bloody battles raged
as alliances filled the stage
and at last, a momentary peace was cast;
with love and hope returned again,
life was never quite the same;
distrust, cold war gloom
threatened the next generations bloom
a hated war embraced love freely,
killed in a plaza at Dealy
perhaps too easily, we gave it all away
as nuclear power paved the new day;
the power mongers rose,
wealthy and the greedy exposed
life continued for the bold,
growing rebellious children in the fold
with yet a newer fear to mold,
wars and change in the aftermath
for everyone who has lost their path;
equality returned to the open stage,
the promise of an enlightened age
but time is never stationary
and no one man is a visionary
with walls torn down and freedom's cries
history burns with false truths and lies;
drugs and saturated imaged shadows quickly return
to clouded hazy minds burned
in foggy dreams to be unlearned
and fallen heroes disappear and die
close the century with disappointment
and no magic panacea provided ointment
now at the turn of time
in the final last hurrah
a battle rages yet no one with power speaks
of the lesson taught,
history must once again,
repeat.
Seen it all
my dear father
the foolishness, the truth, and lie,
in which mankind lives and dies
the messages by which the common man exists
is only the futures that we all resist.
A musing recollection on my father's 100 birthday. 8/19/19
Nature is free and she is walking around with me, nature is free and the birds are whispering in the trees. They are mating on top of the hill and they just cannot keep still. Look at them flying in that willow tree, looking for somewhere to make their nest, they are flying around like wild beast, pooping and filtering energy in the street. They say it is a symbol for protection and an omen for good luck but when the droppings fall on you, you have to have a strong stomach.
Watch the trees as they stand still and reminisce with the wind; they are standing at attention as they pass through that painful recollection .Dead bodies floating in the stream, tires burning in the deep, and bullets rigged buildings swaying in the breeze. Something has transpired there many years ago and the trees are witness to those memories. I sat quietly at the side of the stream recapturing my imaginary dreams and watching it playing out in reality. It is that powerful connection that you have with the soul; it is something that is larger than life and it is connected to the divine. You cannot see it, you cannot phantom it but you know that it is there. It is bigger than my soul and when my spirit is sad, I become one with nature and dine in that imaginary rapture. The trees cannot understand it, the mountains cannot contain it but the deserts embrace it. Nature breath at the sound of the wind, nature shouts and the volcano erupt, the earth trembles when I bend my knees and the floodgates open when I raised my hands.
Come and sit with me for a while and put your hands upon my heart and tell me what you feel. It is the sound of nature rushing through my vein and the spirit of life that I must maintain, and the warmth of the earth moving beneath my feet. I can see you looking out your window peering at something from a distance but it was hard to connect with that mysterious rhythm that was moving in a different direction but nature quickly turned it around and forward it to where destiny is bound and I could instantly feel that connection and a slight wind came in from space. Nature smiles and rolls its eyes as it recalls that painful sacrifice, meeting with people all over the globe, whose hearts are touched by the untold and so the freedom of nature rolled through the gate and upon it the tree embrace.
Gentle light flows through the pines,
Inviting the oaks, the laurels, to sigh,
Echoing soft breath, smoke rising –
Mist in the sky, a moment of silence
Breaks the song, playing on the crisp morn’
This is summer’s sadness, when August
Shadows the heat, the sweltering thoughts
Erasing July quicker than sunlight erases
The dew from tender petals who remember
Only the beginnings of dawn’s presence
Soon, Autumn will write its lyrics in dancing
Leaves, vibrant promises of scarlet and gold,
Enchanting the dreams with laughing hues,
Music playing quietly on the still, cool morning
When a heart reaches through the misty air
This is the best recollection of the autumnal
Wings, airborne, soaring gracefully over the
Trembling skies – into the endless veils, vapors
Still, ashen clouds, mysteries in the heavens,
Inspiring poetry from those who write visions…
Warmest wishes, feelings like leaves faded
Beneath the strongest branches, oaks and birch,
Inspirations beguiling the moon to heed the stars,
Blow away the doubts from the storms, rains falling
Melodiously, stirring the embers of a heart, a soul
August noon awaits the temptations so soon removed,
Washed away by the fond webs, the drying memories,
In tones of ashen amber, soothing auburn, reflections
Breathing out psalms along the mountain ridges,
Repeating the trembling hopes, the dreams of a spirit
Eminent woes, memories peeled away in layers –
Intimate and healing, reassuring that fall will be what it will be,
Always alive with reflections, embraces, traces of hope,
Heartfelt desires and wondering affections kissing the truth,
Abiding inside those who know this is God’s unfinished painting –
This is the treasure of summer poured out in wistful
Memories and promises, prayers for the seasonal grace,
The inspirational – the thanks, given to the One who
Captured light and poured it across the earth in one enchanting
Explosion of amazing, marvelous, stunning – even the greatest poet
Can’t write a wonder like that –
His hand, His sculpture, His creation… baffles even the most confident artiste
With God, there is no impossibility and no reason for upset
With Him, not only autumn, not just august, but the entire heart
– the whole life, the entire soul – is blessed!