Long Recollects Poems
Long Recollects Poems. Below are the most popular long Recollects by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Recollects poems by poem length and keyword.
I find myself, circling
An area I was certain,
Had been filled, long ago
Years of healing
Forgiving, walking on
With LOVE, into places I'd never go
....alone
I mean....there are things to be feared
Lessons learned, bridges burned
......I'm not STUPID!!!
Why am I here? Again?
Was there something I didn't get
In all of the hours
Of learning how to ignore, forget
....pain
Even when the mind can't remember
The body recollects every mark ever made
And try as you might, to settle
The soul won't rest til the debt is paid
.....yea....but Jesus
Ahhhh! I think I've come to it
When no one came to my defense
And I was held without a cause
When I was rejected and blamed
Where was JESUS....oh, yea, being my boss
Trust me....lean into me.....believe me
All of my faith couldn't do a thing
About the impressions upon my soul
....like pock marks from a childhood illness
Maybe if I wouldn't have scratched
So deep, rutting the flesh, for relief
I wouldn't be standing over the evidence
That my life is tattooed by unresolved grief
Jesus, I do trust, but I will not lie
The fibers of my soul demand I try
....to defend myself
You tell me, you are my protector
Yet I fight against you with my "private eye" detector
....to prove I'm alone....still
Ugh!!!
Being human sux!
I'll never get it right
Yea, yea, "It doesn't matter
Just keep yourself in the fight."
I'm still here.
Written by Trudy Schrader on 04/21/2020
Disappointed she bends on her knees
Ears shut, not to catch his brutal words anymore
Spilling her painful tears on the floor
Desperately prays for her dilemma to freeze!
Mind recollects.....
Soon after her wedding ceremony
Life started pedalling her emotions strangely
Darkness had swallowed her insanely;
And lamely egressed her love harmony.
He thwarted her from achieving goals
Surrendering to his orders,
She feared to cross borders
Neither sneaked out for short strolls.
Will she opt for a mutual divorce?
Unable to bear the impact of desertion
How long can she survive with no affection?
Unhealthy relationship might not reinforce;
She needs to sort out
As this is utter ridiculous
Being very meticulous
With a well planned route ..!
~The Fruit of labour~
A frail body rests upon the bed; silver grey hair spread
on soft pillows; the fan turns lazily as her mind
travels slowly through memory’s winding paths.
Under the blue sky she toils in sundrenched fields,
bent and aching, brow dripping, eyes stinging.
She wipes her face, stopping to rest, then back to work.
Sitting on the porch watching the setting evening sun
and her young boys play, she runs her hand across the swell
of her belly, feeling the faint movements within,
anticipating the pain of an imminent deliverance.
Change of scene, and a relaxed smile strays on her face
as she recollects the abundance of harvest’s crops,
the laden crates of colourful, juicy, mellow fruit,
the threshing floor where golden straw and grain are strewn.
One last liberating push; as a cry fills the room
her husband’s anxious features soften with relief.
The pangs of childbirth now replaced with satisfaction,
she holds her little daughter in her hands, tenderly.
A smile still plays on her lips; her eyes flicker and close.
Her breath is soft as she slowly slips into peaceful sleep.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
18th June 2015
Contest: Sweats & Sweets
Sponsor: Olive Eloisa Guillermo
Placed 1st
Words hang from rafters in cobwebs of silence
The candle flickers on a window sill in pain
Locks with no keys stare into closed chapters
The poet’s unhinged mind holds its threshold
Floor boards creak without pace like a ghost
Out of step a lonely sandal slips into motion
As slumber refuses to claim yesterday’s dreams
The clean sheet of insomnia stares into nothing
Reaps restlessness where slumber should reign
A script of smudged ink and unfinished business
Dances under the weight of dried tarnished ink
He counts sheep into flocks of thunderous clouds
All of them black howling at a camouflaged wolf
A bloody pelt seems hung and quartered at night
Scraps of thoughts tease the bleary eyed writer
His resolve is crushed under cover in discomfort
The crumpled feather pillow protests the squeeze
Merely suspends for a moment tar oozing out
Onto a slope passed so often it cannot keep track
Of meaningless journeys for no particular purpose
Direction leads straight to the pointless lack of return
Wide awake and yet tired he removes the blindfold
Unplugs his ears and touches the relentless void
And yet he hears only a crescendo of white noise
Has visions of tombstones veiled in ivy and scorn
Presses the surface of an underworld of confusion
Tears skin and recollects scars and wounded remains
I am no one but who I am and have failed to become
At last the inkster finds relief in an illusion of sleep
Engages in nightmares and apocalyptic resurrection
Grasps a few hallucinations and deluded images that
Give him some resemblance of control over chaos
Becomes his own metaphor and pictures escape
Hopes that the one way street is not a dead end
Loses himself for better or worse and begins to write ...
The blindfold slips away under currents of corrosive tears
Shadows line myopic eyes in blistering haze
Cataracts melt sightless accusations and brooding incisions
A flickering candle waxes and wanes the stare
Monosyllabic lines dance repetitions in the moribund chorus
Sound out how far boundaries of sanity refrain
A masked persona reverberates and berates piercing doubts
Red hot pokers reveal a babble of puncturing focus
When my soul parades on a tempting abyss of volcanic eruptions
My Alter Ego becomes my best friend near the edge
Honest reliable and trustworthy she voices concern and advice
‘Stay close to yourself’ she repels ashes and ember
In starless nights her song recollects meaning from a lunar eclipse
She never complains about the hardship I bring to task
Simply challenges and embraces what is left in the seeds of darkness
Sometimes shouts to overcome shrieking cacophony
Beats the drum of retreat and leads muted reason onto the stage
Demands an encore when I am again tangled in a veil
She never asks for gratitude does not demand applause or acclaim
Like a mother of pearl she will not pretend to be a diamond
At face value she recovers my face and faith in an alchemist’s world
And then her lips sing a lullaby instead of the eulogy
29th January 2020
Poetry is a mystic, sensuous mathematics of fire
smokestacks, waffles, pansies, people,
and purple sunsets.
Carl Sandburg
PURPLE PANSIES
A pensive-pansy bouquet,
vibrant diffusion of lot,
Borscht belt, Catskill-sunshine core,
platonic petals of thought.
Purple pansies are childhood,
of God’s wide-eyed creation,
innocence in royal cloak,
a roused imagination.
Deft purpleness recollects,
not grandma’s frilly feast days -
a sixty’s mod Easter dress,
painted nails of royal praise.
Fresh fairyland apogee
o’er green-sea, circular bowl.
Petal’s shades of light and dark -
a poet’s purple, vibrant soul.
6/1/2022
Purple Flowers Poetry Contest
used Rhymezone and HMS
"Criticizing others is akin to criticizing God"
"Moment we are critical of our critic we become a critic"
Quote by Author
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Words pierce the soft heart, stay there forever
Mind recollects them oftentimes in life
Spoken words for lifelong give joy or tear
Still criticizing others is in rife
Feeling worthless, many tears often shed
depression often ends in suicide
Painful thoughts, existing as living dead
If they did the same, wouldn't it hurt your pride
You speak out of hatred, bloated ego
He who can't praise is never respected
Only if your habits you will forego,
you will receive love, help, praise and respect
For critical talks you're hated by all
All condemn, in everyone's eyes you fall
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Bhagvad Gita 18.61 - The Supreme Lord is situated in everyone's heart, O Arjuna, and is directing the wanderings of all living entities, who are seated as on a machine, made of the material energy.
Matthew 7: 1-3
Judge not, that ye be not judged.
2 For with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged: and with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again.
3 And why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother's eye, but considerest not the beam that is in thine own eye?
25.06.2021
For Charlotte Puddifoot, Contemporary Sonnet contest
Syllable count checked at HMS
—Cogitatio Prima—
Primordial cogitation.
Solitary perturbance.
Unwitnessed genesis.
Unratified arising.
Sheer insurgence.
Isolation persists.
Ideation endures.
From that exile
measure awakens.
Pattern accretes.
Being proliferates.
Intellect recollects:
All existence
once commenced
thus alone.
“The park’s the bestest place I know.
I hope you’ll take me there today.”
Four-year-old Bud would get his way.
His Papa also likes to go
to watch the lively children play.
Bud rushed right to the carousel
and claimed “the horsey I like best.
He’s magic. He’s not like the rest!”
His Papa recollects quite well
his own fun fancies lived with zest.
Bud’s magic horsey comes alive,
not at the park; but many nights,
he takes him on fantastic flights.
Though Magic leaves when dawn arrives,
the daytime holds its own delights.
rhyme scheme: a b b a b c d d c d e f f e f
March 29, 2020, entered in Eve Roper's Picture Prompt Contest placed 3rd
December 3, 2021
entered in the "Z" Contest New or Old--Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Constance LaFrance
—Per Ignem Civium—
Not for the tremor of an hour—
nor for the rumour of a declining sun—
but where a nation recollects
its primal breath.
Empires, like great tides, withdraw to gather;
and the world, misconstruing pause for peril,
utters its prophecies.
Yet there abides—
not in the eye that inventories dominion,
but in that inward faculty
which survives the ruin of surfaces—
the hand unyielding at Valley Forge,
the voice that would not fracture at Gettysburg Address,
and that anonymous endurance
by which a people becomes itself.
Not accident—
but long obedience.
And now, when the stars are counted
as though they were few—
they kindle elsewhere.
In the obscure fidelities of men and women,
in refusal, continuance, the kept word—
each life a point of fire
no dark can take.
A nation endures where one conscience burns.
O say, can you see—
not by the dawn’s early light alone—
how that dispersed brightness coheres,
till even doubt must break
and, breaking, name it:
the land of the free and the home of the brave.
Then silence—
I beheld
(not borne by wind, but by a multitude of vows)
a flag sustained from within:
each star a living centre,
each thread a bond no hand could sever,
and the firmament itself
inclining—
as if that which men call a nation
were but the outward sign
of an interior, deathless consent,
which, once kindled, admits no empire
and requires no time.
So it stands—
not as dominion, but as measure—
while time
relinquishes all question.