Long Refilled Poems
Long Refilled Poems. Below are the most popular long Refilled by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Refilled poems by poem length and keyword.
There's the Groundhog
sluggishly slinking up the cherry tree
checking out to see
if there are seeds in the feeder.
Just refilled he sees
then inches up cautious and higher
until he is level with the dish
sliding in position to snack.
Thought he was gone
since all my vegetation
had succumbed to his hunger
but he has returned.
Perhaps because
the hot dry summer
burned what little remained
and his hunger drew him here.
Little chubette he perches
securing his view
and satisfying his needs.
No point in chasing him now
though my pup
would enjoy the chase.
Let him be.
What’s for the losers
what’s for those lost
out of the spotlight
alone in the frost
What’s for those orphaned
from acceptance and fame
who live out their lyrics
— in search of a name
*****
Baby Steps
It’s amazing the things
you think you can still do
once you’re really too old to do them
It’s amazing the excuses
you cling to with dear life
the facts dead set against them
With each new passing day
your vision conforms
to the fantasy growing inside you
Until time runs its course
with the hourglass dry
and set free — baby steps in the queue
*****
Prescience Surrounds
Happening — slow
remembering — fast
Time’s rearview mirror
spins life in a flash
This minute in real time
the past is abridged
Those days in between
neither one will forgive
With every step forward
there’s two taken back
Where fate trails behind you
and poised to attack
Until the epiphany
of prescience surrounds
And frees you from both
— in this moment profound
*****
Arteries Free
An angering hemorrhage
of violence old
America needing
a tourniquet bold
A triage in process
new choices to make
To save what is reasoned
and lessen its fate
Defending each stitch
with sutures retained
No bandage is needed
when blood is contained
Once over the trauma
there’s hope in the wind
Its arteries free
— of the deadliest sin
*****
L’ Optique
Away from the
darkness
not into
the light
A glass when
refilled
halfway up
‘is what might ...’
What might be
half empty
what might be
half full
One thing
or the other
a parallax
— lull
*****
A Reminder
Tomorrow’s poem ...
it dwells among us
Like the shadow
of a statue
Unsculpted
in the mist
Tomorrow’s poem ...
implanted glory
That hides in futures
past unseen
A reminder of what
— we’re yet to know
(Dreamsleep: June, 2026)
A once-thriving wishing well now stands as a desiccated testament to lost hopes and the passage of time. The well is not merely stone and dust, but a silent amphitheater where countless dreams once took their bow, now reduced to a stage of cracked earth. It is a mute oracle whose prophecies evaporated with the last drop of water, leaving behind only the ghosts of whispers and the echo of unfulfilled prayers.
This dried-up structure is an empty vault, a safety deposit box for the heart’s most vulnerable desires. Each pebble, once a potent offering, is now an unspent coin of faith, tarnished and forgotten at the bottom of the husk. The well’s deep, shadowed maw, once a mirror reflecting the hopeful eyes of believers, is now a blind, dusty bowl—a bowl of broken promises and evaporated tomorrows. The sun beats down on its rim, relentless and unforgiving, baking the very memories it holds into brittle relics of what was once a sacred trust.
It is a monument to a forgotten religion, a sacred site where the congregation stopped believing. The deity of the depths, the guardian of the granted wish, has long since departed, leaving the sanctuary to the mercy of the wind and the dust. The ropes that once drew forth buckets of life and promise now hang slack and frayed, like the severed lifelines of a belief system that could no longer sustain itself. They are the desiccated veins of an optimism that no longer flows.
The parched stones, once cool and slick with the perpetual moisture of faith, are now warm to the touch, retaining the day’s heat long after the sun has set, as if still burning with the fever of a long-ago wish that was never granted. The well is a skeletal hand reaching up from the earth, its fingers spread wide, not in supplication, but in a final, resigned gesture of emptiness. The dried wishing well is, in essence, a beautiful, tragic metaphor for a heart that has run out of wishes, a soul that has learned the hard lesson that some droughts are too long to break, and some wells are never meant to be refilled.
Forget everything.
Forget all our dreams.
Of children and marriage and life filled so meticulously.
For once in this lifetime.
I just want to be me.
Forget all the passion
All the love that we plead.
Forget all the anger
Forget all the zeal.
Remember the heart
That once used to beat.
Not needing a battery
To complete every feat.
Remember the need
To be more than you can conceive.
Remember the want
Remember the heat.
Remember the greed
To procure every stead.
To walk in the park square.
With your head
Not facing your knees.
Revive the action
Revive thee please.
Revive every emotion
That once set you free.
Steady you stand
No need or demand.
Speeding heart you recede.
No barrier to compete.
The fire rein stilled.
The love refilled.
Words come so easily with a power
That I had forgotten how to feel.
Do not restrain me
Or refrain from thee.
This love that once made thee
Shall never be regained.
Love lost love found
Love stolen and then gathered around.
So arguably untainted
So incompletely infatuated
BY
Amanda.M.Miller
Form:
I fear one day I'll have nothing to say
The pen that I hold it has no more ink
The well spring of ideas drained away
My lips will be parched I will long to drink
A blank page before me eyes filled with tears
The pen that I hold it has no more ink
I guess we all worry we have our fears
More than one way to look at what I see
A blank page before me eyes filled with tears
I can be refilled if I am empty
I may need to be quiet for a while
More than one way to look at what I see
A stack of poems on my desk in a pile
All the thoughts that have occupied my mind
I may need to be quiet for a while
My own voice blocked out now what will I find
I fear one day I will have nothing to say
All the thoughts that have occupied my mind
The well spring of ideas drained away
If ever I had two hours with you… or three,
the vacancy of this night and lulled
shores would be refilled with the gushing
of frosted air on our reveries past;
the multitude of amiable stars bestowing
a hush of surrender... raged midnights ending
into fresh mornings backed by our
theme song replayed.
Then, to recall the sevens and nines of time
cutting our names into crumpled paper: a departure
of hearts traveling in different territories.
We inched away,
not because of lack for vows marked in deepest
sands. But… by fate’s desire to shelter you in
a faraway place, while I... I burned skies
through the pain and beauty
the long distance of regrets had claimed.
If and when we unite again, two or three hours
by God's grace, oh the fluttering of a thousand
fearless thoughts would not be enough to say you were
the branch that got away, and I was your last rose
that lost its stem.
Perhaps, now is the moment to clutch the moment?
Regina Riddle's Seize The Day ( Carpe Diem)
10/26/2014
They call me Brave Heart
Not because of my courage but because it is my last name
And not because I "like" Mel Gibson that much but because it is
how I was raised.
Half black and native girl raised on the Reservation
With the beautiful people of The Oglala Lakota Nation.
Two times their tone
as a dark girl among Natives I was taught to hold my own.
You see it is the two worlds that brought me light
And it is my last name that gives me the strength to fight.
They call me Brave Heart
Like the beat of a drum
And the hold of a knot, my destiny cannot be undone.
High centered in between
A mixture of African decent and Indigenous being.
I see the greater picture
And I write the words to my own scripture.
I feel the power of my ancestors blood through my veins
And I scream out their existence in my last name. LILILILILILI
I was shackled and beaten as my African mothers
And I share in the pain of the slave trade with my sisters and brothers
Our truths will prevail through HIStory,
And we will restore our Ancestors glory.
They call me Brave Heart
But my skin and biracial split aren't what separate me from the rest
I just know that born into this life I am blessed
I am grateful for those who fought for me and our bloodline to pull through
And I am here today to fight for them too.
You cannot defeat those who are not afraid to die,
And you cannot fool those who see through lies.
Although we were hit with everything from slavery to genocide
they could still never kill Our Native and Black pride.
We know exactly who we are
Because the blood in us proves our ancestors pushed us far.
It is not over for us
We have refilled our cup,
So no matter how much you knock us down we will
Stand back up.
They call us Brave Hearts.
Akiza - a war cry used to celebrate the spirit of our ancestors and their fight- LILILILILI
The quiet of the early morn
Emphasized by doves' songs
And crickets chirpinng melodies
To Beethoven belongs
Above a canvas painted bright
Done by the Master's hand
Blues so clear and bright and pinks
Now unknown to man
Just enough wispy clouds stretched across
To absorb the morn's sun
Silvery fog reaching down low
Caressing pines with fun
Sand upon the cottony clouds
While the sun is nestled
On the earth's horizon~ captured
In memories' moments
Through the trees a red fire ball sun
Shines glowing hot again
Another scorcher this summer day
Grateful for time to pen
Wonderful a few minutes alone
To enjoy nature's still
Soon life will pick up and move on
My spirit's been refilled
Tiny, my precious one-eyed ball of fluff --
with oh so sharp teeth and claws --
is disarmingly warm and cuddly but
often still quite skittish,
and stand-offish.
She purrs non-stop, contented,
when safely protected, on my lap
while being stroked. Her food and her water
bowls are clean and full
and her litter box is mostly promptly
emptied, refilled, odorless
and sanitized.
So what if she nips playfully
at my aged paper-thin skin?
Also she may snag my dressy
seldom-donned attire with those
sharp claws. But
she over-pays her board, her daily care,
with fond head nudges, and with her
unabashed preference for me
above all others, even now,
when I may no longer be,
to others, what I was.
To her, still, this outer shell
is precious, is safe,
Is reciprocated love,
is home,
is everything.
GOLDEN SAND
So fine, so precious, the priceless demand,
is the seeping time, this golden sand.
For you each day, love continues to grow,
The prayers of my heart, you may never know.
If time ever removed you from my embrace,
I would still forever see, your precious face.
For prayers that time will be refilled,
The hourglass of time, still yet doth spill.
If time was as eternity, and eternity the same as time,
We would always be together, you forever mine.
But we only have a lifetime, of golden sand each day,
Even now and tomorrow, time is spilling away,
Much more in my heart, than I can ever hold in hand,
This love so precious, as golden sand.