Long Redrawn Poems
Long Redrawn Poems. Below are the most popular long Redrawn by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Redrawn poems by poem length and keyword.
disillusionment gathers
like an incoming storm
with impending doom
rainless clouds
become the reigns
of the thunderous rage
toppling statues like trees
along paved walks
where peace one gathered
flags now burn upon the grounds
and those that fought to protect
lie unearthed within the fury
as headstones tumble
like dominos downward
common grounds become trampled
battlegrounds now redrawn
as the world looks onward
through the haze of destruction
awaiting the smoke to lift
yet the storm
rages on
unscathed
June 28, 2019
N-A rerun 9
Sponsored by John Hamilton
Brian Strand new poetry contest 2
Contest judged 6/29,2020
(it's the only n/a I have from this time frame, I don't consider it political but if you do and care not to place it, I understand!)
Ring with no feather in my cap only envy
at handsome man drakes with bucks,
who could bank on "hot chicks" willingly
aligned in arrow emitting clucks
fluffing their respective tail feathers amidst
loud squawking out quacking
establishing pecking order like ducks,
or any other foxy fowl billetted
within walled din noisy hen house
preening, each be solder self flux
sing wings and waddling, flirting, casting...
webbed wide good lucks
at the growing flock
including male friends relatives,
minus yours truly, whose presence,
would merely generate a yawn,
though even a distinct black swan
received royal carpet treatment
particularly one named Shawn
encompassing another honorable guest
with illustrious surname Rawn
guests underwritten by Cupid,
whose presence surreptitiously withdrawn
(invitations distributed widely explained,
just beak cuz gerrymandering redrawn)
even provoking deer interest
of stray doe eyed fawn
hence lacking bravado and brawn
this bird den some seedy,
yet dove out crow kissing Avocet
trundled off to parts unknown you bet
far from boys stir russ, raw cuss, diss cuss
ting clacking clique, and thus this solitary fret
full ostracized, rejected, unwanted egret,
who heron there experienced many a let
down, not simply because of stork disparity
with the Aves and havenots,
but I never met
any other species so set
in their ways, hence off
on a wing and prayer
in search of other gulls,
whom this dodo bird they will coe vet!
Dwell not, O soul, on yesterday,
on sorrows past and gone -
the sketch you drew so long ago,
today may be redrawn.
Dwell not upon tomorrow's wars,
nor borrow from their pain -
that energy you need today
let not your worries drain.
Dwell not, O heart, on failures past
though each one left its scar -
rich lessons you have learned have forged
the person you now are.
Dwell not upon your victories,
for those shall also pass -
let not your pride construct a shrine
to trophies made of glass.
Dwell not, O soul, on others' gain
nor envy those with much -
contentment, paired with gratitude,
brings peace no wealth can touch.
Dwell not on anyone's downfall
as though it lifted up
your own estate; we're siblings all
and drink from the same cup.
So what is left, O soul - where does
the prudent soul pay heed?
Become less of a taker
always give to those in need.
Which seeds are we to plant
upon this plot of ground we plow?
Sow seeds of love, be brave, and dwell
in the eternal now.
Written 6 Dec 2020
The hours have been driving me,
I almost miss the exit ramp,
I wake, I sleep.
This kind of waking and sleeping
is controlled by a ghost in my head.
Now I am eyes on the corners
where the flickering sky
swings between trees,
my feet juggling over
the low flying road,
hands winding and unwinding
on a tugging wheel.
This country road I know well, but the
fading day wants to paint me out
of a map it has redrawn.
The hours have gone,
they are melting back to Florida
to sleep with the manatee.
I am left here
grinding through the gears
swinging in a hammock of
slow and fast moments.
The driveway dives out
of a side-show hedgerow.
Car-parts shake themselves into silence.
Benumbed bones lag behind my heart.
I step out of the car
crunching on my own limbs.
The engine ticks in a white-hot daze.
Windows watch me curiously
as my stranger self
enters a place it calls home.
In the mystery of the night, when stars sneak stealthily through the branches,
nothing has changed, and the body, that ephemeral vessel, still knows how to weep,
susceptible to pain, like a flower under the burden of cold,
the sky hums its eternal song, and we, prisoners of breath,
with thin skin and blood boiling beneath it, are but shadows
in the eternal dance of time, with bones breaking
under the unforgiving weight of history repeating itself.
Nothing has changed, although the earth seems smaller,
and everything that happens feels close, like a whisper
beyond the wall, and the body still trembles,
as if it always had,
before Rome, before Christ,
the same silent scream, the same echo of suffering,
a symphony of innocence, spanning the ages,
uncomprehended, yet ever-present.
Nothing has changed, only the number of people has grown,
and with them, the offenses, new and old, real and imagined,
but the cry of the body, that visceral response,
remains unchanged, a melody in ancestral tones,
that binds us to our ancestors,
that movement of hands trying to shield the head,
the same gesture, the same falls,
knees rising, skin turning blue,
a dance of pain repeating into eternity.
Nothing has changed, only the boundaries have been redrawn,
the lines of forests, coasts, deserts, and glaciers,
and the soul, that tireless wanderer,
loses and finds itself among them,
a stranger to itself, illusory, often unsure of its own existence,
while the body is, is, and is, without its own place,
a nomad of time, lost between heartbeats
and the whispers of the wind constantly calling it back.
And yet, in this landscape of melancholy and dreaming,
nothing has changed, only we, the dreamers,
lose ourselves in the flow of consciousness, in search of solace
that never comes, just shadows of dreams
intertwining with reality,
while the body remains, ever-present,
a memory of what was and what will be.
Days are sharp as memories pass
As the idle thunder attest
to storms of unsettled wrath.
They gather together on the opaque horizons.
The engines of the highway HUMM
and
the grind with the heaviness of an iron heart
…eons-long!
Full of oily thoughts and rusted parts,
in memorium when machines ran
by our hand only in the theory of history, Grand!
The city reeks of oblivion and abstract thoughts…
Infinities' echos were sharp redrawn imagery…
Antiquated days nestled in idol thunder!
of tomorrow’s memories…ALL
In the theory of memory
Now all color is
…is the color of embers
As we rust like echos that pass
into the wasted days, abstract!
In theory of memory…
Only the bitter last!
One must imagine Sisyphus’s
boulder, marble-sized these days
And Ozymandias’ plaque,
spinning despair into praise
Look on, ye hypocrites,
and sneer at my undoing
Your universe is a giant sandpit,
entropy accruing
Their legacies long crumbled,
eroded by rust
Gods built the wrong way,
on scaffolds of dust
Virtue or vice register
equally the same
Except between stars,
there’s space for one more grain
Down here, we clock in daily,
stack hours like prayer
Worship strong Wi-Fi,
evangelize on thin air
Imagine heavenly echoes,
because the silence isn’t fair
Some develop connection,
others a thousand-yard stare
Our Earth splits naturally,
along seismic lines
Greenwich claims centre stage,
only for the meantime
Sisyphus, still aching,
gets an epidural at last
But only in hindsight,
for his hump blocks the past
Redrawn are our own lines,
watchtowers in the sand
Sketching new borders,
carving up the promised land
Exhume ancient treasure,
and black, viscous stuff
Addicted to all things buried,
as if our dead weren’t enough
Still we write blindly,
tracing glyphs already faded
Helps lift the mood
when depressed and jaded
Gods stand on shaky ground,
myth holds them together
In schisms that bind billions,
then sever forever
Oh, look on—ye poet
Sisyphus now rolls his eyes
He’s seen the apps, wars,
hoodies, and cable ties
His hamster wheel’s a meme
for gods who merely try
Small wonder he mutters,
at least Ozymandias gets to die
And sometimes I pray to gods,
or maybe their ghosts
About versions of me
I’ve been missing the most
They don’t directly answer,
but do leave this guess
In the end, to keep on rolling
may be my passing success
By David Kavanagh
The estate of my spreading life
has been plowed over many times.
Plantations have withered and been replanted,
grain fields have turned to dust,
have laid fallow for years
yet now the corn is high and golden again,
trees felled and burnt now grow tall.
Mind body and spirit maps
have had to be redrawn,
shorelines and boundaries moved.
However now I can walk my mind back into past times
and circle all the seasons of my existence
at once.
Barn doors are wide open to tomorrow lands,
My earth is still rich and good,
my store runneth over.
I am not the master here, just a worker following
a tilling, plowing, and seeding Owner;
I am charged only to oversee
this landscape of me.
When this soil I have worked
at last is blown away on the winds of time
a plantation of plenty
will be reflected in the mirror of eternity,
and I will be a servant of my most High Self
at home once more in my Master's mansion.
Valentines Day always found me quiver and bowed over
Ring with no feather in my cap only envy
at handsome man drakes with bucks,
who could bank on "hot chicks" willingly
aligned in arrow emitting clucks
fluffing their respective tail feathers amidst
loud squawking out quacking
establishing pecking order like ducks,
or any other foxy fowl billetted
within walled din noisy hen house
(yepper blame pandemonium on the fox)
preening, each be solder self flux
sing wings and waddling, flirting, casting...
webbed wide good lucks
at the growing flock
including male friends relatives,
minus yours truly, whose presence,
would merely generate a yawn,
though even a distinct black swan
received royal carpet treatment
particularly one named Shawn
encompassing another honorable guest
with illustrious surname Rawn
guests underwritten by Cupid,
whose presence surreptitiously withdrawn
(invitations distributed widely explained,
just beak cuz gerrymandering redrawn)
even provoking deer interest
of stray doe eyed fawn
hence lacking bravado and brawn
this bird den some seedy,
yet dove out crow kissing Avocet
trundled off to parts unknown you bet
far from boys stir russ, raw cuss, diss-cuss
sing demerits of being in debt
ting clacking clique, and thus this solitary fret
full ostracized, rejected, unwanted egret,
who heron there experienced many a let
down, not simply because of stork disparity
with the Aves and havenots,
but I never met
any other species so set
in their ways, hence off
on a wing and prayer
in search of other gulls,
whom this dodo bird they will coe vet!
Our central vein is like a band of steel
As such, how may we speak of chakra points
Upon ego death we begin to heal
In a oneness field where God’s touch anoints
Embodying the light within we see
Boundaries drawn were merely thought constructs
Our pristine consciousness is always free
Known clearly when lower mind self-destructs
Manifestation is a wisp of smoke
Dancing as just do, puppets on a string
When fires of desire we cease to stoke
In the void of silence, we alone sing
Chakras was what we were talking about ~
That in truth nothing exists, have no doubt
That in truth nothing exists, have no doubt
Yet in life’s lucid dream of we but pause
Stuporous mind stilled and our heart devout
Clear light dawns as our identity thaws
In early days chakras were in focus
Representing realms we needed to cross
But ambling gently along love’s locus
Prayer on our lips, we discard the gross
In time nodes entwine, with God’s will align
That with map of our consciousness redrawn
We become the flame that carries His sign
As transcendental light that ushers dawn
On ceasing thinking we begin to feel ~
Our central vein is like a band of steel