Long Rungs Poems
Long Rungs Poems. Below are the most popular long Rungs by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Rungs poems by poem length and keyword.
Systemic Strain, Not Personal Fault
They say "pull yourself up",
But the set of steps they hand you got rungs
Missin, bolts loose,
And a warning label that indicates:
Good Luck.
You out here dodgin' glitches, cutoff.
Caseworkers who forget your name
Bur remember your target dates.
You fight battles they swear are "Personal
Choices ".
In the process the whole damage system
Been leanin' crooked since before you were
Born.
And still- They point at you like you're
The Crack in the pedestrian way not
The aftershocks they triggered.
But Nah you're the one who learned
How to walk broken streets without
Losin' your pace.
You're the one who maintains truth
Like a blade tucked taintless under the
Tongue. So you spit it raw:
This constriction ain't mine this fault
Ain't mine.
This weight was innovate by hands
That never had to lift it.
I'm not the blemish, I'm the witness.
I'm not the burden-
I'm the blueprint of persistence.
I'm the voice they can't repose
With paperwork and excuses.
I'm the specifically of every person
Whoever got blamed for a system that
Failed them first. And I say it blaring
Loud enough for the block, the courthouse,
The whole damned state to hear
I'm not broken.
I'm piloting what was built shattered.
I'm navigating what was built and that
Truth, That's power
My first test in what we shared
too easy and too perfectly paired.
The part of us that is immortal
ran holding hands through a portal,
quick to stumble and trespass upon
a duplex that kept the blinds drawn.
Your covenant before my time,
had me pray for that exception of mine,
but my ladder to Heaven with rungs of hope
couldn’t bear the weight of sin—no matter the slope.
So no from scripture to your mother,
from every hand we were to suffer,
fools bound in a tortured trust,
nothing was going to change the unjust.
Given the faith and a mind to discern,
but my wicked heart still welcomes your memory's return.
Its pulse echoes a buried refrain,
the hook on the end of a chain
will dangle this dream forever,
a rearview horizon’s tether
from our last day—these thirty years,
ghosts recite testaments of tears,
for it was only I or they, that cared.
I never found again, that shared.
the ladder is metallic
a shiny gun metal blue
light weight and telescopic
14ft tall or nearest the sod
as high or as low as i like it
i will displace myself upon it
i can lean it where and when
i need it, it's light and portable
ascending or descending on its antislip pedals
i do not climb the ladder
the ladder feels cold or hot
it teeters and is stead fast
my footing is lifted on it
i can mount it high
or as low as it will go
step down on it and heavenward again
the ladder makes a clatter
it clanks a rhythmic sound
three six nine rungs at a time
keeping a tempo on its firm board
one button retraction with multi positions
on this ladder i see all possible horizons
i do not climb the ladder
a practice in perspective
a soaring dismount while clutching the handrails
cascades and escalades
out of the forest, above the trees
the ladder is a step stool platform
extendable or collapsible
i do not climb the ladder
come to me what i do not want
drop on ascend, raise the fall
do it with confidence and poise
the ladder is unpredictable
it suggests a cautious advance
leading to somewhere never gone before
the ladder makes authenticity blossom
taking all devices in stride
it neither confines nor defines
i do not climb the ladder
We ball then bawl
We rode the lone road
as dears that dare
each goading each's gold
up devil's stairs we stare
out to red herring's sea we see
waves of rungs that wrung
like killer bees we be
tung twigs slipping his tongue
he's a heel that's never healed
spouts the whale and her wail
but as bees spill more spiel
she becoming pale kicking his pail
she took pain from his window pane
tears dropping the glass tiers
till she reigned his clouds of rain
no longer his deer poke or dear
misery's won and they're back to one
what's don is now done?
connie pachecho
4/25/17
Moonstruck
Many moons and seasons ago my five children
inquired where I was heading to on my journey
I replied ‘to the moon’ and to how to get there
‘with a ladder’ to astonished faithful suspense
Turned downsize up and ascending again and
once more over and above I should get there
so I took them along flights of innocent fancy and
smiled when they suggested a ladder from heaven
Then darkness descended in lunar concealment
little did I know do I know now for certain how
the fairy tell princess came to savour the pathway
Time place and place-time ventured departed
into vortexes of void switched on in the clouds
Somehow and only the Universe holds answers
my soulmate and lover emerged into the rays
‘I would fetch you the moon on a spoon if I could’
and she ladled lunar surprise to my orb of the night
Soul minds physical spirits union beginnings sprung
into the fore pushing and pulling mounting the stage
Spoons fetched celebrations of life passion wilderness
oceans overflowed wetlands of love and a lighthouse’s
coloured glass windows went embracing the rungs
Since those moons struck together just the sky was the
limit still plenty of riptides spring floods torrents abound
and whirlpools droughts desertification flickering lights
breathing shadows unfolding distant horizons untold but
The pushing and pulling oases spinning spoons
mooning spoons spooned mooned up together
lick orbital salts crack creviced valleys of life while
the moon struck home onto love and compassion
Many moons and seasons ago my children knew
of my journey much better than I and raised in
their question the meaning of life at the crossroad
and it does not matter how they knew that ladders can fly
17th July 2016
Written many moons again by the Universe and still writing all over, above and beyond...
In the velvet ink of a cosmic sea,
Where the stars are stitched by destiny,
A Mantis rises from the garden floor,
To walk through a golden, celestial door.
?She is the Madonna, the chosen prize,
With the weight of the future in her eyes.
Not of Earth, yet born of its loam,
Searching the stars for a spiritual home.
A conqueror comes from a throne of chrome,
Kang seeks to claim what he cannot own.
While Rama-Tut watches the timelines spin,
Waiting for the godhood to begin.
A ghost in the wires, a silver shade,
The Swordsman’s debt is finally paid.
Through the Cotati, life blooms anew,
In a forest of emerald and starlight hue.
?The Prophecy Fulfilled
?She is the bridge between the leaf and the soul,
Making the fractured universe whole.
From the Avengers’ hearth to the Kree-Skrull fire,
She climbs the rungs of a heavenly pyre.
?No longer a pawn in a temporal game,
She whispers a secret, a holy name.
The Celestial Messiah is ready to rise,
Under the gaze of her empathic eyes.
?A myth written in panels, a legend in bold,
The greatest story the galaxy told
The will to power is a prominent concept in Nietzschean philosophy,
And exerted a strong influence on some major movements in history.
Its effect can be traced to the fields of politics, evolution, and psychology,
And provides useful insights into the subject of African slavery.
Nietzsche’s belief in the concept of higher or master morality,
Lead him to disavow ideas of egalitarianism and democracy.
Master morality, which values pride and power was thought to be superior,
And slave morality, which values kindness, empathy, and sympathy inferior.
Hitler was attracted to and influenced by aspects of Nietzschean philosophy.
And the Nazis selectively used his philosophy to justify their infamous activity.
Ideas are not immaterial they are important in shaping our views.
It was erroneous ideas that lead Hitler to kill six million Jews.
The Nazi order praised the Antebellum South and its existing societal order,
Which kept African Americans at the lowest rungs of the social ladder.
Hitler believed that a Confederate victory would have made America a great nation,
One ruled “by a real Herren-class,” and based on inequality and black subjugation.
While Americans reject Nazism, the idea of white supremacy persists in our society.
And we must realize that this idea is antithetical to the principle of democracy.
If our nation wishes to eradicate systemic racism and correct the effects of slavery,
We must remove from public places the monuments and symbols of the Confederacy.
But the removal of monuments and symbols alone will not atone for our nation’s iniquity,
America must finally acknowledge the national sin and evil of black slavery,
Reform its educational system that still perpetuates the myth of white superiority,
And remove the barriers that prevent blacks from achieving social and economic parity.
Over a century after the abolition of slavery, the evil of racism still haunts this nation,
That prides itself as a bastion of equality, liberty, and a model of cultural integration.
It is time for this generation of Americans who live in a society built on injustice,
To take responsibility for proactively addressing injustice and ending racial prejudice.
Life keeps going to find his purpose
he strolls across verdant plains and trudges up the hills
sometimes dejection follows rejection and distress
darkness engulfs
and something spooky emerges
looming large to form something horrid…
a hideous hunchbacked hiatus.
Life slows down…wary of the
impending hindrances for his progress
and there is a temporary pause.
This hideous hiatus distracts him, traps his mind,
capable of taking any form…like
alarming anxiety… about denial and failure
gloomy grief… at the loss of a loved one
frantic fear… of loneliness and uncertainty
abominable anger… that cannot be controlled
pernicious pride… without the grace of humility
disgusting jealousy… of others’ success
dreary vacuity… that fills the desperate mind
…it keeps hovering around on and off
in many more such formless forms
Yet something prompts Life to try to move.
He musters courage and proceeds further
as he imbibes wisdom
from little things he sees
in nature
in his day-to-day life…like:
A fertile green land in a vast sandy desert
Tiny seeds that spurt to grow
into young new seedlings
The gleaming full moon
spreading soft light
upon dreadful paths at midnight
A toddler who tries to get up
and walk with wobbly steps
in spite of falling down many times
A ladder in which
hope takes her first step
in its rungs
and ascends to new heights
overcoming obstacles
The dots of a rangoli
that would never let
the motifs of our thoughts waver
imparting spiritual insights into life
A pure white dove
sitting with its pair
a sign of hope
of finding a lost love.
As hope follows every form of hiatus
like buds finding way to bloom
at every trench of rocky soil
Life advances on and on…
You asked me what I’m doing
Sitting in this warm summer wind;
Late in the night beneath the moon light
Hoping I’ll see you again.
After all these years of wondering
Whatever became of our dreams?
When we were so young and climbing the rungs
Of living beyond our means.
Criticizing, antagonizing
Each other day by day;
What became of the love that burned like flames
And ashes, we threw it all away.
As time took its toll as we both grew old
And traveled to opposite ends;
You took to high mountains and I to low rivers
Swearing never to return again.
To that place we once stood together
Promising ‘til death do we part;
Until we shredded that vow and swore somehow
Never ever make a new start.
Now you ask me what I’m doing
Sitting in this warm summer wind;
Thinking of you and the love we once knew
And does goodbye really mean the end?
Christmas edition of PS News is out, and here's the scoop
Poets are climbing the rungs of ladders on Poetry Soup
It's not an easy feat; one to be applauded and praised
instead of opposed, demeaned, or by jealous ones, razed
Why bother looking at lists if you find them to be galling?
Frankly, I find one with such an attitude to be appalling.
Remember that Santa makes lists. Two of them, in fact
and you'll be on top of his naughty list if you overreact
Stop being so gosh darn negative about petty trivialities
We are not alike. We have many different personalities
So stop whining about poets who like to write for contests
You will surely find a lump of coal in your stocking, unless...