Long Reread Poems
Long Reread Poems. Below are the most popular long Reread by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Reread poems by poem length and keyword.
They call you my ex—
like you were just another chapter,
just another name to forget.
But how do I forget
the girl who made forever feel real?
You weren’t my past.
You were my present,
my always.
The one I whispered dreams to at 2 AM,
the one I laughed with
until my ribs ached and my guard fell.
They say time heals.
But time can’t touch the parts of me
that you etched your name into.
It doesn’t erase your voice
from the corners of my mind,
or your touch
from the quiet spaces of my heart.
I still carry you—
not like baggage,
but like a scar I’m proud of,
because it means I once loved deeply,
and maybe,
was loved too.
So no—
you’re not my ex.
You’re the one I still write about
in the silence,
the one I reread like a story
that never got its final page.
And maybe… just maybe…
some stories are meant to find their ending
in the second draft.
Yours,
Always,
Me
I think it’s time I write
Write you OUT
Of the coming pages of my life
Oh…you linger
On every page
that's ever been
Keeping the plot a disguise
Unexpected events
My heart's demise
Slowly but surely
being written
By your unseen hand
I reread chapters
You were in my yesterday
You haunt my today
I don’t want you in my tomorrow
Not when you only bring me pain
No
I’m going to write you out
Cause I couldn’t write off
The debt of pain
I STILL OWE
To your oh so exacting heart...
I can't write it off
and so...
I’ll do the next best thing
I'll write you OUT
Out of the next scintillating sizzling sexy sentence
Out of the next dreamy dreamscape
Out of the next contentment compartment
Out of the next feminine fruition fantasy
For you've written only fragments
Sentence fragments of the greater picture me
Oh my!
Oh me!
I’m going to write you OUT
Of MY book
Of rememberance
The book of ME
Oh, it could have been
The best seller of your LIFE
But now you'll never know
Cause the coming pages are clean
for some beautiful soul
Some expert author
With the plot of pleasure
Bursting from his heart
Onto me
I'll LET HIM
Scribble his lines
Those glorious curves and dots
all over my body and mind
all over me...
Yes....spill his passion inked words
ALL....OVER....ME!!
And him..
HIM
I'm going to write IN
Oh...so deep and gloriously...IN
The book of ME
Eileen Manassian
I’m reading a book that I’ve read once before,
But it’s not for the reason you’re thinking.
It’s not that I loved it, but rather because
As I’m aging, my memory’s shrinking.
The author is someone whose writing I like,
Yet the title I didn’t recall.
It was published a number of years ago, still
It did not sound familiar at all.
So I brought the book home and I started to read
And I felt something tug at my brain;
For the characters’ problems allowed me to see
I was walking familiar terrain.
From the nooks and the crannies where info is stored,
I retrieved little bits that adhered;
But enough of the story’s retained its suspense,
For the bulk of it has disappeared.
I’ve decided that I will keep reading this book
And in case this may find you perplexed,
Though I’ve read it before – I’m quite sure of it now –
I have no idea what happens next!
As a volunteer in a coffee shop as a waitress,
I provide customer service all the time.
Sometimes I make mistakes,
Other times I provide good customer service.
One day a customer came in for lunch,
She ordered a toastie and chose the middle line of fillings.
She didn’t realise the three lines of filling options were different things,
I pointed out the first filling on that line goes with the last filling on the first line.
She reread the menu and chose cheese & pickle,
The toastie was cooked and delivered quickly.
When she paid her bill, she said to me,
‘Thank you for your help’.
She told the manager about how helpful I was,
When she got confused about the fillings.
The manager was pleased to hear about this,
She said how pleased she was.
This is something to remember.
16/09/21
A Lovely Memory Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Regina McIntosh
Among the shadows of people, I stumble incessantly,
Invisible among their walls of noises and living shades.
My thoughts are colorful butterflies that find no understanding,
Words - echoes crashing against the altar of the misunderstood.
Yet there exists a constellation of wanderers, kin to my solitude,
Who have begun to rummage through my soul without ever touching.
Unseen companions have sprung from elongated syllables,
They bathed my blinded eyes and were pillars amidst waves.
You, whom I have never looked into the eyes, become my guides in this realm.
I cherish you like the ships carrying me over seas of oblivion.
The wind thought to break me, to silence my song,
But in the cosmos of words, this is the unwritten law - the poet does not yield.
Sorrow intertwines with my breath, the elements seem to resist me.
I read and reread, with all my stigmata and all my unhealed yearnings.
It is your blood, faceless friends,
Formless angels holding me in arms when all tears overflow.
The entries relayed herein, are for your eyes
as they reveal and release my feelings and thinly veiled thoughts.
The mind tends to move so much more quickly
than the pen in hand.
You get the idea though
don't you?
As you read you may find it necessary
to reread and clarify the original intended thoughts.
But You get it right,
Or am I wasting time, ink, pen and paper?
No, certainly not a waste.
This helps me clearing and revealing
all I feel, ponder, experience and desire.
This is all I am
open for your eyes to see and read.
And in return I find,
by reading what you say and write
we share the heartaches, joy and pain.
Ghost voices are whispered, as the pages unfold
As I search out a treasure,
in a timeless story told
A musty, weathered novel, is a measure of pure gold
Leaving me breathless, in the somber library's fold
I envy the heroine, who is fair, with slender build
Overwhelmed here by a stranger, as she is whisked into the air,
then over misty moors, as they gallop far away
Riding in her lover's arms,
at the end of the perfect day
A dreamer's wistful story, with a sensual lover's lore
Latitude is England, so lovely to the core
Chapters read, I must reread, each time with gratitude
Brimming tales of renaissance, and elegance ensured
I read, I sigh, I dream and vie, new longings of my own
Imagination's rampant flood, is running through my blood
I own the place, within the page, and ponder through the maze
My heart will race, as I keep pace to find the story's end,
then find myself within the arms of fiction and a daze
____________________________________________________
8/7/15 For Isaiah's Contest: In The Library
They chained my ancestors so I would break free from the shackles of slavery.
They colonized my family tree so I would embrace freedom through dissidence.
They imprison my kin so I may wield my convictions as weapons of war.
They imposed the plagues of capitalism on the colonial trading posts that sharpened my clarity.
I will never be their favorite house *****.
They sanctified racial hatred as if there were multiple human races.
I was schooled in the colonial classroom, yet liberty and equality keep me from blindly singing the praises of fraternity.
I know that some dark skins were born with the genetic code of betrayal.
I am a Sub-Saharan animist, aware of my Africanness, on a planet hostile to my humanity.
Born of the cradle of the first human beings,
those bloodthirsty colonizers disguised themselves as missionaries to violate the dignity of my people for centuries.
They want me to drown my determination in the maze of the illicit.
They want me to be their scapegoat when they seek to conceal their incompetence.
I will never accept being the doormat on which they wipe their filthy feet.
I will never be the lectern for the Negrophobic and supremacist stereotypes they’ve kept alive since their so-called abolitions.
I am not only free: I am a rebel they will try to marginalize.
Their devilish schemes will have no effect,
for I am the product of the slums of an Africa persecuted since the Arab-Muslim slave raids.
I have never been a native subject, but I like to reread meticulously the Code Noir through Colbert’s own eyes, so as not to be one more blind man facing the savagery of the makers of the black bomb.
I stand in the skin of an undocumented immigrant who can never be assimilated after being “Frenchified” in the furnaces of colonial cruelty.
I will never trust the Republic of Slave-Trading Enlightenment.
These compulsive racists want to see me dehumanized in the slave plantations of their supremacist alienation,
just as they did to my forebears for centuries in Africa and the Caribbean.
Rereading the poems of others
and my own. Community across
time and graves. What's left
exceeds in significance
one's last moment. Yet
his last moment must have been
exceedingly important
for the poet.
Nothing he did that day will seem meaningful.
While we prosecute the war
a pileated woodpecker and red squirrel
compete for sunflower seeds.
A winter slow
to assert itself.
I can still see my mother's father and his bowl
of filberts, almonds, walnuts
quiet weekday mornings.
Both grandfathers read sports
pages religiously. I don't know
if my grandmother who gave me the
anthology of, to date, dated
unreadable poems read poetry.
I remember my mother's mother spoke
rarely as an animal.
Writing but not knowing where I'm going
unlike Joan Didion justly
cannibalizing candidates
who didn't read the Constitution, Bill of Rights or
Federalist Papers. It's late,
I have not vacuumed or shopped for food.
Instead I reread
Phil Levine's Salami.
In the topic of magazines.
I sat on the cover, close to the reflection of her eyes.
Relaxed in the greeting of open arms.
She paused, sitting upright.
The gap between us now closer.
Allowing the invitation of smiles.
Our upright becoming a corner staple in the edge of anticipation.
We both sat.
Allowing ourselves to do what came natural.
My reflection seen clear in the middle of her eyes.
Her personality pasted all around me.
No currency was exchanged in the beauty of two souls flipping to page 42.
Reading the full article.
Taking our time not to wrinkle the pages.
Moving from the cover to emotional commitment.
The exchange of excitement
Where she was free to be herself just as I.
Ideally, I reread every paragraph.
Falling in love with everything represented to be pharmaceutical to deep need.
Constantly reading then rereading the same passages over and over.
Hiding myself behind the cover.
Wanting to know more