Long Refusing Poems
Long Refusing Poems. Below are the most popular long Refusing by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Refusing poems by poem length and keyword.
There's a storm raging inside of me
Tearing me apart I rarely allow images from the past to haunt me
But as of this moment
I can not stop the influx of pictures that are marching behind my eyes
We have both changed
Been down so many roads
Sometimes together
So often apart
As I sit here reading past poetry slowly arriving at the present
I realize it's an anthology of us
Eighteen is when I wrote my last poem
Forty-one was the age I began again
The year I believed I had lost you
I had no need of poetry while we were together
Rhythm balance and beauty was written into the fabric of our lives
A harmony few ever achieve
But even those whose stories are written in the stars
Can come crashing down to earth
We have tenaciously clung one to the other
Even as we slice each other to pieces
I have always looked to the future
Seeing the better people we could become
You cling to past images
Not allowing yourself to let go of the perfection we had once achieved
Both of us stubbornly refusing to live in the present
And though I finally saw the error of our ways
I fear it may be too late
I have always been strong enough for the both of us
But as I look at you now
You've become everything I knew you could be
I feel the boot prints on my back
You have no need of me anymore
Is it time to forge my own path
Will I allow myself to let go
You've crossed my mind many nights.
Sometimes I just lay there, holding you tight in mind.
Wandering your body with my hands.
Filling my fingers with the skin I've dreamt so much about.
The things you keep hidden. unraveled in empty sheets, blankets.
Your warmth becoming the only comforter that dictates whether or not I'll have sweet dreams.
What justifies the stain our breath has left on one another's.
The press of your face against my neck.
The marks left on each other in anticipation. Refusing to pull ourselves away.
Clinging tight to the climax of being beside ourselves.
Deliberately keeping each other awake in the promise of sleeping wild moments later.
To watch your face scrunch up as it breaks your gasp. Bringing a halt to anticipation,
The comfort of bodies becoming pillows harboring us into a deep sleep. Soft, still.
My head laying on your shoulder.
As we ourselves become lost in the sheets
Written: May 2nd, 2026, for a contest sponsored by Constance La France
Quote: "If you mingle in a pointless argument, it can be tough to lose respect," by Poet
1st place contest winner
*********************
In this wide, wandering world where bright souls mingle,
where moonbeams murmur, and star-songs softly tingle.
We float through days like dandelion dreams,
dodging the gloom, chasing sunlit streams.
Sometimes brim with noisome notes of wrong,
a rattle of rancor in life’s long song.
Yet even then, a blithesome breeze breaks through,
reminding hearts what happiness can do.
For when we mingle with the kind and true,
with gentle spirits glowing gold and blue.
The world becomes a gamut-gleam of grace,
a carnival of color in every place.
We skip the shadows that would grate and bind,
refusing burdens that would bruise the mind.
Instead, we gather lucent, lissome light,
letting laughter lift us into flight.
And oh—how thrilling life becomes when we
choose joy with dogged soft tenacity.
Mingling with marvels, miracles, and cheer,
turning every hour into something dear.
In this mixed world of wild delight,
where mercy lights up all that is in sight.
Our spirits spark, our inner stars ignite—
and life leaps forward, dazzling, feather-light.
I walk the streets of heaven
all alone
blinded by the alabaster
GOLD
searching for the God
of endless names.
The streets are empty
under quarantine
the clouds all closed
no angels in the fluff.
While hell is flaming still
in merriment.
I wonder - was I chosen
or just sent?
There are no children here
they took a pass
refusing to accept
salvation's splash.
All the flags are white
no rainbows here
wherever GOD went to
he isn't here.
I somehow breeched the barriers
of faith
and scalped a season ticket
to this place.
The angel's wings are tied
behind their backs
cuz they refused to wear
the foolish masks.
They say the thunder's
just GOD getting grouchy
Because he's not as powerful
As Dr FAUCI.
John G. Lawless
5/31/2020
When Water and Fire Collide
Tongues knoted in Silence, Silence Preside
Mercury Dulled Lovers Communication
Muddled Messages, Interactions Barely There
No Interest, No Warmth, No Feelings Shared
Creating Distractions to Minimized Relations
I am Here for Me, You're Here for You Situations
Eager to Strike a Match to Extinquish A Red Candle
Retrograde Realiazation, She's too Much to Handle
Afterall,
She Walked Through the Fire Furnaced Air
With A Honey Pot Filled With Ale From the Fountain
of The Dragon's Lair
She Saw Her Reflection In Mercury's Silvery Mirror
Emotionally Volatile, Diamond purifed of a Coal Cluster
So Now,
Under the Influence Of Miscommunication
Visible Lines were Blurred, Heated Moments
Dulled by Confusion, Desiring Isolation
In the End,
She Choose to Surf the Mercurial Anti Clockwise Wave
She Intelligently Flowed With the Current
Blatantly Refusing to Be Mercury's Warded Slave.
My knuckles are raw from the cold subway pole,
and the guy next to me smells like damp wool and cheap coffee.
He’s staring at a cracked phone screen,
his thumb scrolling past headlines, dinners, divorces.
We don’t talk.
Nobody talks here.
But under his heavy black winter coat,
somewhere behind his lint-covered tie,
a small fist of muscle is slamming against his ribs.
Thump.
It’s a clumsy, desperate noise,
like an old radiator knocking in a basement.
It keeps time against the black tunnel outside the window,
a persistent thudding negotiation with the dark
that just asks for enough time to get to Tuesday.
We walk around pretending we own the sidewalk,
worrying about the rent, the teeth that need fixing,
the text message left on "read."
Every wet breath is a lease renewal
signed in the dark without our permission.
I look at the girl across from me,
her eyeliner smudged from a long shift.
Her chest rises.
The cold world looks the other way,
indifferent,
and lets her have another minute to figure it out.
It’s not a grand design.
It's just a truce.
A messy, fragile truce,
kept alive by a pound of red meat
stubbornly refusing to stop hitting the wall.
just going to church every week ~ does not make you a better Christian
be grateful for everything that you have ~ because many have nothing
love and respect are not something that you can buy ~you have to earn them
our world leaders and politicians ~ do not bear the scars of battle
your clock of life is ticking and does not stop ~ do not waste a second
surely it is not the end of the world ~ if your team loses a game
always accept a gift ~ don't hurt someone's feelings by refusing it
the reward for kindness is the joy you bring ~ to someone else's heart
it is inevitable that you will grow old but think young ~ stay young
the only true winners in wartime ~are the arms manufacturers
machines make life easier ~ but cannot function without your input
Written 14th March 2021
a thousand tragedies paned
onto the community headlines
slashes the idle spirits
the wound enrages them to
seek out sadistic glee for the sake
to title themselves as 'woken.'
pitchforks and torches raised
looking for the guilty farmer
with swift words and stories
all the crops seared in the name
of the mindless chase for "justice."
“no god or jury; only us”
the next day arrives new tragedies,
sprouts new farmers to fight,
old pitchforks and torches to light
burning all but ideas
immortalised by martyrs made
from setting the flames
not one man asks for
the purpose of the hunt or be
branded as “the problem”
they walk the same burned soil
refusing to admit that they are
only casting flames on scarecrows
to the new age cult
criticism is blasphemy
indifference is hatred
The white rabbit died,
it was suicide,
his work had failed,
his aging tale unwound,
unbound and lost,
winter frost dreams covered,
he’d learnt his lesson,
but from his teacher’s end,
severed.
He warned of watches,
watching watches to discover,
time uncovered,
exposed and closed,
hands intombed in gold,
the pocket watch,
Pandora’s box,
now everyone has several;
and they’re still all late.
They’re late in thought,
of latent thought,
once held in ignorance,
they can’t ignore hands,
the turning tine stabs deep inside,
infecting hearts,
all turning parts,
man made of cogs,
with cogs.
At war with sunset,
refusing sunrise,
natural cycles forgotten,
of greedy madness begotten,
flawed and false;
they wither to the void of innumerable cloned tick-tocks...
©David Nickle Read 2015
It began as tone—
no origin,
no end—
a chord mistaken for a world made whole.
A held vibration gathered into shape;
harmonics thickened into edges felt,
and silence filled with structures made of sound.
A pattern looping through a field of noise,
hoping repetition made it true.
Desire tuned the body into pitch,
insisted on a key, a fixed resolve,
refusing dissonance its right to pass.
But slowly, the will releases intervals;
resolutions drift without a home, and rhythm slips its measure into air.
Overtones collapse to quieter threads;
no struck glass shivering into light,
no instrument remains to house the sound.
No echo left to gather into form
only the unheard,
unstruck,
unheld
a silence
prior to all music,
where nothing ever
needed
to be shaped.