Long Sapped Poems
Long Sapped Poems. Below are the most popular long Sapped by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sapped poems by poem length and keyword.
Written: February 13, 2023
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An anathema for,
pilose nettle burns,
an art form of unstable feathers,
tropes across the ivory cuticles.
Melted mascarpone in a figurine,
pearlescent obsidian,
hooping sapped spirit,
sight of the blue sky.
within her boneless flesh,
the artist grumbles severely,
in a strained, velvety voice,
jumping into the air.
Prima picture goes away,
with feeble equine acclaim,
the nest of the forlorn swan,
embracing an ethereal dawn.
Whimsical soprano,
barely etched in matte black,
diploid remains,
a flawless fleck of fascinating fright.
Rakish Requiem for an,
unrequited magnum opus,
rushing on pinewood stains,
on the cusp of collapse.
As she droops on the ladder,
the impresario draws the
opera curtains closer,
while soothing music,
numbs her toes.
When Requiem strolls,
across the stage to the tune of
Mozart pianissimo,
he manages to pull off,
fulfills a task with accuracy.
2nd place contest winner
brittle stained jagged fingernails
scratch against the splint hairs
of a cold weathered wooden elbow
an impatient clock had sapped
a once supple leather coat
now requiring constant mending
as homeless unraveling posed an inevitable ending
torn pockets spilled over
with a plethora of dead letters
hope had long ago delivered
its final walking papers
without care of return receipt
handmade trees with news of unease
spun unmercifully
into the arms of a brisk fall breeze
birds began their escape
into the mouth of another sun
a slow rise from a patinaed throne
on a benched park seat
a myopic vision of how cracks
are formed on overused and forgotten streets
she walks alone
to nowhere
a decayed ballerina
the place she is seen as most complete
I am tired.
Usually in a “life has sapped itself out”
But that isn’t what this is about.
I. Am. Tired.
Of my stupid styrofoam smile
Squeaking under pressure all the while.
I am tired.
Of being walkedranmoppedraked overthroughon.
And of being treated as dumb spawn or clueless pawn.
I am calm, patient, quiet, KIND.
In the midst of grossness others spew against and on my mind.
However. My still hand does NOT mean
That I don’t find your way of existing obscene.
I may not lift my finger,
But damn does wavering will barely linger.
I am so tired of tulips and fields and eggshells.
I am ready for mortars, more ammo, some bombshells.
I am so tired of being the go-to-friend.
You know I’ll be there in the end.
I am so tired of “can I, may I, if it’s not too much”
After a while, doesn’t tired become the crutch?
Tired, exhausted, drained, and used.
Perhaps from the next I must recuse
Myself not because interests conflicted,
But rather because you don’t deserve a finger lifted.
I am so tired of being my warmth of fiery nice.
I’m so tempted to just let it all go.
Be discompassionate ice.
"FATE slew him, but he did not drop;
She felled—he did not fall—
Impaled him on her fiercest stakes—
He neutralized them all.
She stung him, sapped his firm advance,
But, when her worst was done,
And he, unmoved, regarded her,
Acknowledged him a man."
- Emily Dickinson
Fate
Tried its best to kill his spirit but he refused to appease her desire
She fell by the wayside but higher his spirit rose
Fate
Tried to hurt his will with her strongest stabs
He
Refused to succomb
Brushed aside each stick
Fate
Drew a line trying to halt his advance but when she had issued her last demand
He
Untouched and a stronger character rose from life's circumstance
And
Fate
Found him an honorable man mature
Sponsor: Jerry T. Curtis
Contest: Prose Vs. Poetry and The Classics
Written: June 05, 2014
I chose Emily Dickinson one of my favorite writers
Her Poem Above
I am in all a moderate man, a noted country gentleman'
with all the accoutrements, a house, a farm and gout.
My politics are not extreme, I'm reasonably devout.
I have my peccadillos but they barely warrant mention.
To hide my light beneath a bushel I've never felt an urge.
In one particular virtue I feel a measure of pride.
Judge after I have put my case if I'm not justified.
Temperance is my virtue. I draw back from the verge.
Excess I shun as ‘twere the pox. Revels I'll have none,
for eating much and drinking much are folly's requisite.
At the vicarage and the manor I am noted for my wit.
No local scandals I invite. London's there for fun.
Here on my farm, my little world, there reigns a blissful peace.
Bumpkins and commoners alike still hail me as the Squire.
Come end of day, I'll sip my port, roast chestnuts by the fire.
Was that the braying of an ass or the cackle of my geese?
When Walpole steered the ship of state how happily we plied!
No foreign broils or riotous mobs then then sapped the nation's wealth.
Complacent Whigs and good King George sustained our common heath,
but now dark clouds have gathered and adverse is the tide.
I thank my Maker day by day for being richly blessed,
yet feel no little pang and twinge when I think upon the poor.
Much more could be done for them, of that I am quite sure.
To help me get to sleep at night a jug of stout is best.
In days done by I did aspire to turn men's hearts to good.
So great the world and I so small, unequal to the task.
Should risking all have aught effect? respectfully I ask
and thereby serve the greater world ? I don't see how it could.
The cherry that I planted close by the brick church wall.
That cherry tree is not one wood, not all one wood at all.
It sits upon a different stock, protecting from disease.
What sits atop that lower stock flowers finer blossom, grows greener leaf,
protected from diseasing rot by stronger wood beneath.
That wood first stood as chosen, the gardener's true delight.
So finely grown, until that day, for cherry's sake, his royal crown was cut.
His bark was not like cherry bark, but mixed, with perfect golden strap,
yet also striped and slashed, as though with cruel wounding strike, with bruising whip-cut lashed.
And when first planted by that wall, his root blocked by foundation stone,
it did not seem he grew at all,
yet root was quietly reaching down until around all hardened soil,
that softer wetter ground was found, and living water sapped each branch,
and each branch grew him tall.
And now this beauty, grafted in, displays the splendour of his spring,
as long as it remains within that bruised and wounded saving tree,
which gardener's love has given.
Yes, which gardener's love had first conceived, then planted low this mercy tree, this saving tree he loved, but gave for love of cherry tree,
and gave for you and me.
Wood sapped Energy succudancing up gnarling roots
grasping trees of life
erupt to full parasitic bloom
within millennial Great Transition
blaring autumnal winnowing of karmic stamina.
Fire brings full-flaming confidence
derived from summer's thirsty rain of seed-
recessing roots
plunging and emerging
rich deep regenetic learning:
Communing forests blanket mythic understories.
Keep going back, back further down,
before space emerged from tempered Voice
to once within our EarthTribe Time
when Trees of Life pushed out
from gravitas of boldly hidden
coincidental embrace.
Villages incarnate from fire-lit stories shared,
and love of Other
bursting nature notes
dancing Earth's Permacultured Opera.
My chords and chorus sing through ears
I hope to synchronize with gratitude,
sight with sound
becoming with being
longing with belonging
bi-rooted functions
uncovering emergent Tao
co-engraving information of Positive Teleology.
What grows primal
feels irrationally magical
crystal-fractal;
green-leafed anonymously silent saplings
waving from and for ancient cliffs of paradigmatic rock.
Stoned paradigms of ancient Orthodox
sing echoing synchronicity,
dancing rocks within my rolling mind
learning how to rhyme with age,
unfold color fragrant grace-carnating
Great Transition Time.
We call it love - this hidden orchard path
twilit figs have fallen near
to rest, where we stroll and speak and listen
‘til the fruit is sapped, youthful sins confessed
bundled with twigs, themselves detached
resembling branches with complimentary
scars left groping floor-shadows:
those of lustful hop-scotch-jigsaws;
those of the faint whimper heard in morning
as fresh fades to rot; of dawn-kissed figs molting;
of a daughter crying
to the barren nursery while mother
plans forever unaffordable furnishings.
We call it love - this lonely
strip-mall path followed, leading
to just another lost-in-the mail acceptance letter
to just another
lost-in-the-scuffle’s
paternal subjugate,
with love.
You’re not good for me
You’ve just got to go
You’ve brought me nothing....
Nothing but sorrow!
You’ve sapped all my strength
You’ve tortured my heart
You’ve crushed my spirit
You MUST now depart!
You’ve splintered my wings
You’ve wrung my soul dry
You’ve fed me mind’s beasts
You’ve made your girl cry
I’ve tried those potions
I’ve tried the fake priests
I’ve followed the rules
I’ve had sacred feasts
What else can I do?
What chant can I pray?
To exorcise you
There just seems no way!
You’ve made your own home
So deep in my head
I’m obsessed by you
Tormented in bed
Get out! Please, Get Out!
For I must go on!
Be exorcised NOW!
For my sake...be gone!
When I am all clean
With no demon trace.......
Then.....
Then....
Posses me once more
With your angel face!
When the dismal darkness of the deceivers' camp
overwhelms and I have deserted the way,
a harsh winter of doubt governs cold and damp.
When conniving, selfish men parade and prey,
despair grips me tight with disapproval's stamp.
My candle is dimmed down inviting their waylay.
My deafened ears cannot hear the Lord's voice;
my blinded eyes are quick to make the wrong choce.
Sapped, my faith still knows only God can revamp.
Obedience first, I have learned I must pray
asking forgiveness for letting Satan cramp
my trust which I confess I let go astray.
Springtime returns as the Lord re-lights my lamp
with the dawn of redemption on this new day.
Wisdom and strength restored, I can now rejoice
surrounded by the Lord’s peace and heaven's joys.