Long Rough Poems
Long Rough Poems. Below are the most popular long Rough by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Rough poems by poem length and keyword.
They flee their native country
With teary moistened eyes
They take a few belongings
And hope that never dies.
Away from persecution
Oppression, hate and war
They cross the sandy desert
And make it to the shore.
They ride the waves to freedom
But land is far away;
They have to keep on going
There is no other way.
The wind is getting stronger
The clouds are dark and dense.
There’s cause for apprehension
And feelings that are tense.
The boat is old and weary
(The sea irate and rough);
Abused, disorientated
It finds the going tough.
The storm will show no mercy,
The panic turns to cries,
(The waves are overwhelming)
There’s terror in their eyes.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The calm after the tempest
The sun is shining bright
The boat is drifting slowly
But not a soul in sight.....
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Contest: A poem you have not entered in a contest # 14
Sponsor: Poet Destroyer A.
Placed: 3rd
V.
Besides a rushing stream he saw a stone hut,
framed by aspens clinging to a rough slope,
the chimney was stained from long years of use,
But who lived out here? He just didn’t’ know.
Until his eyes happened upon two graves,
one had weathered, the other was fresh cut.
Who could they know who was buried out here?
Curious, he dismounted and walked up.
The older gave said: ‘Here lies Joseph Fields,
1851 to 1912,
Father, and Husband to his dear Rennie.’
The priest stumbled back. “Wha-what does this mean?”
The oldest daughter, who was named Isabel,
said,”She knew the townsfolk would not understand.
That’s why she used to ride back in her youth,
she combed the mountains, seeking out this man.
“She knew our grandpa had done the man wrong,
that a normal life he never would live.
She brought him money so he’d stop thieving,
and it return, his whole heart he did give.
“When our grandpa died they both realized
that without hm none could prove pa was framed,
they both dreamed of reopening his case,
but knew that doing so would be in vain.
“He visited us at night, when he was able,
and we rode out here to his backwoods hut.
We’re not bastards, Father Cobb married them,
you can at least tell the people that much.
“Six years ago, when our father passed on,
she came out here to give her man a grave.
She made it clear to us, when her time came,
we were to ride out here and do the same.
“We could not speak of this when she still lived,
to do so would have been their undoing,
a millionaire heiress weds an outlaw…
You understand this this would have brought ruin.
“But now their troubles are finally done,
and they can be here, at each other’s sides.
I hope you can spare a few prayers for them,
forced to be apart for so much of their lives.”
The priest was amazed, but slowly nodded,
said, “We thought worse of her than she deserved.
I ask forgiveness, I thought so myself.”
Then he knelt low and whispered holy words.
Later than night, when their mom was at rest,
they all rode away as the sun went low,
past a grave that read: ‘Here lies Rennie Fields,
Forever besides her beloved Joe.’
See these tiny things
Filled with thought profound;
Cute miniatures spring
From creative grounds.
In a format small,
Craft miniature books;
Haiku moments call:
Browse and take a look.
One and a half inch,
The book height is short;
Words squeezed just to lynch
Warm poetry is wrought.
A sure design feeds
Steady hand-skill mints;
This collage craft seeds
Finesse that now tints.
A paper stock craft
Comes forth from ideas;
Design a rough draft,
Mental image steers.
Visuals now take shape,
With thought focus here;
Measure out or drape
What impulse sparks clear.
A tiny book page
Via plain prototype;
Step by step each stage
Styles wonder not hype.
Imagine the route
From a plain blank sheet:
Until success shouts
With product you meet.
This crafty craft fits
The collage art flow;
Poise flavours sure wit
To let tact now show.
Print the outline page,
Trim, cut and align;
Patience works each stage,
Keep eyes on design.
Arrange each page right,
Guide the lines of fold;
Set rule to guide sight,
Keep pulp sculpture bold.
Fold each page well,
Now back-to-back;
Frame by frame tells,
Allow some slack.
Press the stack stage,
Glide steel rule straight;
Sharp blade trims edge,
Both sides look great.
Fit hard cover,
Like a sandwich;
Forge maneuvers,
Paste each to each.
Surely and truly,
The book sculpture grows;
Practice works surely
When rough edges show.
And then, finally:
A tiny book sums
The effort nicely
With a fine outcome.
Mini book that forms
A miniature whole;
A focus sets norm
In dealing with soul.
So crafty craft shows
In body mass cute;
Feel a certain glow
In silence that mutes.
Little treasures here
In miniature books;
To spread ease and cheer
In satisfied looks.
Start again now
To make one more;
Watch skills endow
A fine rapport.
Leon Enriquez
12 December 2014
Singapore
We have been forbearing your oppression for a long time,
Your threats; placing your pistol on our foreheads for a crime;
Shoving your dagger straight toward our chests, as though piercing,
Watching our helpless nervousness and mockingly cheering;
All these, like celluloid terror scenes, are in our mind screens,
Is it easy to turn our bloodshed into duet scenes...?
Our loads are hanging heavily as millstones on our necks,
Who could, oh, the burdens you inflict on us, dare to check?
Caste, color, creed, sex, sect, religion, status, and culture,
Have torn our flesh, like a vehement vampire-like vulture;
Why should our skins look milk-like? Why can't yours look Blackberry?
Is skinning a human virtue? Is it, not savagery...?
Remove your gristle elephant-like legs from our weak chests,
With your lion-like rough roars do not keep us pressed for tests;
Like an ant, under your heavy boulders, we endure aches,
Each delicate bone of ours, under your barbarism, breaks;
Stop your cruel oppression, lest the roots that hold you firm,
May uproot you, and will over you their power affirm...!!!
22 May 2023
This or That, Vol 18 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Edward Ibeh
Rhymes Checked At: Rhymes Zone
Syllables Checked At: How Many Syllables
Pennies are made of worthless copper that even a hungry beggar
refuses to pick up; either I threw them away or kept them in a piggy jar,
but the day came when need and desperation made me rethink
of their worth...a thousands of them could had gotten me far;
A rich person collects not as a poor one who is always on the brink...
has someone looked for them when rough times kept them from that bazaar?
Pennies are made of worthless copper that nobody wants to own,
unless they are, at least, fifty years old...what would President Lincoln,
think of our antipathy for his imprinted image on these little coins?
Do you possess many of these? Save them for those rainy days!
Pennies are made of worthless copper, everybody seems repined,
humiliated and embarrassed to carry them in their purse, or pocket...
look around: they are found everywhere on a sidewalk, or in a parking lot;
make all aware they are convenient to have for easiness of mind!
The trailhead stands there before me,
after two hour's drive,
a peak with a panorama
that others call sublime.
I have been meaning to climb it,
test my will and my heart,
cannot believe it took this long
just to come out this far.
First half-mile is the hardest,
the legs start feeling strain,
bored by long hours of sitting
now they rebel at pain.
Wonder why I keep doing this,
but still I do not stop,
settle into a standard pace
the pain begins to drop.
Around me is a vast forest,
everything looks alike,
like I'm climbing through a tunnel,
and can't rely on sight.
Cling to a narrow walking path,
where others went before,
nothing but endless trees to see,
I thought there would be more.
Now the sweat starts to flow freely,
and the lungs start to heave,
but the peak just keeps on rising,
getting harder to breathe.
The breaks are coming more often,
count my steps to distract
my mind from asking fair questions,
'Why aren't we turning back?'
To go through so much exertion
just to see rocks and pines?
What are we even doing here?
What do we hope to find?
Counting steps no longer working,
my mood is getting rough,
but then a glint of sunlight comes,
outlines a ridge above.
I push despite muscles aching,
despite my tired feet,
tell myself you must feel some pain
if you're to climb the peak.
Trees are now getting much smaller,
the forest starts to thin,
or vista I'd not imagined
I start to get a glimpse...
CONCLUDES IN PART II.
Who named the rose the flower of Love?
Or is it the flower of passion or maybe undying lust?
Was there anyone who wasn't pricked by its thorns?
Wasn't there anyone who wasn't fooled by its beauty?
Wasn't there ever a wife who tasted the salt of her tears
to the betrayal of a husband's lover?
Wasn't there ever a lover who opened the diary of life
to find the wrinkled red petal of years still in waiting
What is the rose,except the scent of imagination
choking with the fragrance of never be mine
What's in a name?Who is the rose?Who baptised this flower?
the flower of seasons,the flower who lives in the rough
hiding its nakedness of pain in delicate and strong
All a rose ever will be is a birthed flower which breeze in the feeling of
'You are so special' till you realise,all that you have in your hand is,was
A PAPER ROSE.
Wallowing upon a pillow of night
he tells himself not to think of that
nor of this.
Soon the slow spinning of mind-threads return,
every thought now is a thorn that must be plucked.
He wants to relax, bathe in pleasant images
yet each pool is full of sharks,
even puddles can be fatal
filled as they are
with immortal memories.
Eyes screwed tight; he wills himself
to walk a shoreline,
to meet a diaphanous goddess
with a thousand soothing fingers.
He begs her
to unclothe his mind of its hurtful past.
The soothing undulations of her presence
cease to comfort him,
rough blows of raging tempests
buffet him more fiercely.
He dreams
of walking lightly upon stormy waters.
From a sinking boat
long dead fishermen fearfully call to him.
He no long cares if they perish,
pretend to survive or not.
The waves recede,
and though they will certainly return
they will trouble him no longer.
He understands.
Abyss my sorrows lies beneath the deep ocean
I am anxious and frustrated, swing that is intolerable beyond my span
tremor that produce fear in the mind
love loses its way remains sick behind
the earth is now trembling in such of the tremor in turn.
The evening stars has been lost its glory in pain
listen , the worst people has forgotten donation or sacrifice in thirst of gain
this is the painful form of civilization
the society has became dungeon,
and the world has became bloody, peoples engaged in war to ruin.
The world is endangered and not in tune, grief overwhelmed
rich and riches are the worth living and are deceptive all of them.
they use in tricks and power
runs in groups in each & every hour,
sweet world is no longer happy now, has became rough and dead in that game.
It has lost its fragrance in leaf, becomes restless, worsen its dwelling
has lost its liveliness to sing humanity and all virtues has swallowing.
My soul is swaying in pain
I wish to set fire in shower of rain
I to do promissory war to destruct evil, for peace and tranquilizing.
In that bet, sorrow, the sea of sorrow, will be sowed
divine the fight mom, I will drowned today, I will take my sword.
At the door of such poison
I will jump mom, for such reason,
I have to win it mom or I will sacrifice my life on that board.
I will Jump to spread the glory of mom, my vow divine
I will set the fire with blood and will bring spring; I will fight till death line.
no matter if I die
rest the world will sing in the sky,
they will hold that immortal slogan to burnt the sin, they them self will assign.
The luster of the flame, poison of devil and the flag there on
wrath of them will smash and will write the history of destruction
that day oh my mom, remember me
keep me in your caress thee
in the golden land of heights, keep me in the stars of your eyes in run.
No one ever liked me even a tenth or half as much
As my mushroom friends Gentle Touch and Such
When I awoke in the mushroom forest that wonderful day
I heard a chorus of tiny voices yelling “hey! hey! hey!”
At first it did not compute that these little chubbies could talk.
They laughed when I said it, gave me their fun scissor walk.
They showed me some of their tricks, dove off flowers and stuff.
I was amused by their antics, they looked so fluffy but rough.
Instant friends with these miniature people, even Mushroom Kim.
I stopped eating mushrooms on my pizza, in deference to them.
As a favor, they offered to sit naked in my tea and steep.
I closed my eyes harder, going back down in Rem so deep.