Long Severs Poems
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Written: September 06, 2025, for contest sponsored by: Constance La France
Quote: "On a day when the wind is perfect, the sail just needs to open, and the world is full of beauty". By Rumi
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Listen—not with ears, but with aching skin,
where whispers meander extreme within.
The zephyr is not a cursory breeze,
But divination along with the trees.
It jiggled enigmatically from the stone
and carved its ideology into this bone.
It speaks in whispers and traumatized song,
of where we're accurate, and what went wrong.
Jaw-dropping stories in stillness and hum,
of battles bewildered and those to come.
It hurdles through periods, grief, and grace,
leaving outward fingerprints on the face.
It wears no enthrone, yet huddles the kings;
It severs the tresses on buried things.
So listen in not for roaring decree—
But toward the breath underneath the plea.
The wind will not delay, solicit, or steam,
It is bombastic and allows you to stream.
Zephyr adorns twigs and allows grass to gleam.
I cry unto you, and still my tears go unnoticed, why do you crave my attention to spurn
me when I step forward?
My hands dig into the soil, earth crumbles through my fingers, the stains of mud cling to
my fingernails, as dirty and soiled as my soul.
I am Scarred by your hatred of my weakness, though my weakness be you, despising myself
for my need, yet succumbing to it's call.
The knife cuts deeper into my flesh, yet my wounds bleed your blood, my veins hold no life
force of their own, the same knife that carves your name upon my shame.
Under a veil of deception you tease and taunt my yearnings, my longing for that which
evades me at each turn.
No-more shall you take from me, that which brings release to my spirit,I also prepare for you.
Salvations saving grace, by the hand that once was held within your's, to this I solemnly vow.
This night I deliver unto you my word, you will hear my call, tonight I will not be turned
away.
The knife has been sharpened by your viscous tongue, yes tonight I give you my word, as
this dagger severs your throat.
I delight in the attention you now attempt to offer me, Mercy is the word you give to me,
too late, it's too late.
As I raise the dagger once more, under the weeping silhouette of the moon, I again give
unto you my word, and my word is death.
A Spirit Leaves the Body Seeking Eternity
A Spirit leaves the body while crying aloud as
Cursing blind hate enters without conscience
A Hell for the wicked casting names as called
Tears of love weeping in sorrow and anguish
Dripping red from the heart beating so dear
Devouring feelings eating into emotions I laugh so
To stop the weeping stirring in deep rocks below
Echoing waves of turbulence and such gale force
Inside one soulful cry sounds in a whispered dream
Begging, desiring to move on from this mortal coil!
But pray tell—must wicked negation like this be
Ever so, if so, then why so??
Man-made negation, negativity should never be
Allowed and the soulful cry must be heard, answered
Divine intervention, angelic powers to the rescue!
A Spirit leaving the body—a solemn event it is
There is no place for such mortal wickedness in this
Instance as the Spirit begins it transformative ascent
Toward the Heavens and the power of the Almighty
Shall answer in kind those mortals who bring their
Perfidy to this most wondrous process that severs
The mortal bonds of the Earth dimension as the
Spirit moves on in its new found state and presence
As Peace and Happiness envelop it soothingly and pure
Preparing it for God’s most precious embrace into Eternity!
Gary Bateman and Liam McDaid – A Collaborated Poem,
Copyright © All Rights Reserved (January 6, 2015)
(Free Verse)
always ...
"always", you confessed me ...
"until the stars themselves grow cold ... "
"and far, far beyond their spin."
my heart was young ...
it was as dew of the dawning -
fresh, sparkling with fascination,
ready to soak the brightness from day.
foolish lad ... callow and foolish ...
so hungry for the fruits of life and love,
that words were served up as the bloom of the banquet,
dripping in the guises that time and reality would come to scald.
oh, wisdom is the blade that cuts the chaff,
that severs all those once-heartfelt sprouts of romance and fire
from their green and ripe fastenings ...
aye, I still taste the sweet of those honeyed phrases,
the ones I placed all matter and intent within ...
the words that wound the threads of our hearts to a rope, secure,
and I wonder, with all wonder and awe,
how, if they were so genuine - so sacred -
can they be so frayed and fallow now?
naught but ashes to the cold wind ...
embers gutted to the dark ...
of Heaven.
~ 3rd Place ~ in the "Strand Choice G, Any Form, Any Theme" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Judge & Sponsor.
beaching…
the rhythmic waves
frothing to and from
carry middle passage echoes
of journeying odysseys
the setting sun severs
the umbilical link
between motherland
and her children in diaspora
reflecting grains of sand
catch crystallizing tears
of memories of faded shores
the bleeding breeze blows
sea seasoned whispers
flowing from lost voices
from sea to shining sea
we’ve been anchored
chained and auctioned
never can slavery be
a metaphor for memory
as waves dissipate
at the shores of time
no matter what beaches
we roam
the shores still sing songs
stealing home.
Freedom is a birthright—
No one has the right
To tread on anyone’s foot
On the pretext
Of one’s own freedom.
Everyone has the freedom
To punch the air
Or swing one’s hand,
But that hand must
Stop short of others.
Like the kite we fly,
Freedom is conditional.
Kite flyers fight
To bring down
One another’s kite.
The powdered glass
On the twine
Sharpens the twine
To sever the kite
At the point of contact
Both try to cut off
The other's kite
By pulling the twine
Or by releasing more twine
To create friction
Finally, the winner
Severs the kite
Of the loser
And the severed kite
Glides down to the ground
Now, whose freedom
Is superior?
The one that is severed
And becomes absolutely free
But what if it falls to the ground?
Or, the one that is still
Tied to the twine,
The spool, and the kite flyer
But soars higher and higher
Into the sky?
The eruption of blazing emotion uncontrolled
from the simmering volcano of anger,
chars the green minds of innocence,
you are burnt by the lava of remorse.
The spoken word of wrath,
the sharpest double-edged sword ever made.
One side may decimate your opponent,
but the other side severs your soul.
The deepest desires unfulfilled,
morph into the deadliest of hates.
You enter the labyrinth of apathy,
chased by the demon of your darkest shadow.
The mind radicalized for vague cause,
rides the mad horse of revenge,
heartless violence destroys the illusion,
the failed victor becomes the victim.
Let the sword remain sheathed abandoned,
tame the beasts of hate and anger,
wield the magic wand of your heart,
win all the battles with love and compassion.
Date written : December 10, 2019
Entered : December 23, 2019
Contest : Your Best December Poem
Sponsor : John Hamilton
He brings awful thunder.
With all his disdain,
he booms and he blusters
with words most profane.
Along with the thunder -
like sparks on a plain -
comes lightning that he
simply cannot contain.
Those blazes of hatred
that she can’t constrain
come suddenly! What
made him so inhumane?
Like crops set on fire -
her heart is the grain
reducing to ashes.
His rage is her bane.
A love once held dear
she no more can feign.
He feels this, and strikes her
again and again.
Along with the thunder
come torrents of rain.
She drowns in the hurt
from which he won’t refrain.
He’s vowed she will die
if she severs the chain
that binds her to him
in unholy pain!
She tried once to flee,
but it was in vain.
Control that is thunder’s
he’ll always maintain.
So pray for all women
within thunder’s reign -
that freedom from it
once more they’ll regain.
The heavens glitter, as trillions
of eternal stars crown the night.
And Earth's bejeweled tiara
twinkles, as Night sparkles with light.
A gilded Moon reveals Her face;
the Goddess of enchanted beams.
And dismisses rules and logic
in favor of magic and dreams.
Safe in my bed, sleep severs strings,
allowing for untethered dreams.
And anxiety floats away,
drifting along fantasy streams.
In fantasy dreams, I explore
feelings of love and compassion.
And not as a puppet of lust,
but a heart, imbued with passion.
Nightly, in the realm of slumber,
imagination helps me cope.
For sheltered from reality,
dreams expand the fringes of Hope.
war is about as far from love as you could get
selling flesh for oil... whose price is certain death
who'll kiss the faceless orphan, void of hope and limb
war, the eyeless ogre, blind to the fires of the sin
war is about as far from truth as you could get
two jagged sides to a hazy story often lead to a bloody mess
who'll dry the widow's tears, when her future's crushed to death
war is about as far from compassion as you could get
war is about as far from earth as you could get
poison bombs pock the ground to steal flowers from their bed
who'll comfort Mother Earth when poison severs her breast
war is about as far from virgin forests as you could get
war is about as close to soulless as you could get
mindless pounding the humble village with mindless bullets
who'll shine the crown of the elders when sanity's lost its head
war is about as far from humble as you could get
war is about as far from fruitful as you could get
who'll tend the docks-till the fields-toss the net
who'll suckle the children-tend the ward- build the building
who'll tend the mosque- the church-the temple on the mound
who'll spin the merry-go-round, when the spinner's in the ground
war is about as far from God as you could get
who'll tend to the dead when everybody's dead,