Long Shake off Poems
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The sun peeks his face out from the passing wind
still chilly and cold, and in this air the tree branches
stretch their arms to hold the sun as if sails on the deep and gray sky
The sun that is out of reach of a hand
may be a hope; no, it ought to be a hope
One night I saw a wayfarer, becoming a moonbeam,
going toward April stepping on the footmarks March
has left behind
Although he has gone through so many hills and high waters
with a knapsack on his back that was full with the countless
sentiments he put in it for pity’s sake, the sack was emptied;
for the lapse of time makes things wear and tear
his garment was worn to rags, and when the wind
passes through it penetrates the garment to chill the bone
The deep anxiety he is unable to shake off, and therefore,
reflected on the running water murmuring through the field
as ripples of moonbeam, which is not from the fleeting of time
or his sufferings while he was walking among the foes, but because
he is sorry for and worries about friends he has to leave behind
The friends, not many in number shared his happiness
at the time of banqueting, surrounding the table though
plain and simple, abundance in God;
at the time counting the falling stars lying on a stone pillow
by the gap between rocks. The friends, not in damnation but
in endurance and warmhearted understanding, talked about better day to come while burning the passions in the bone fire on a day when they were wet and shivering in early spring drizzle
For the days he was with his friends were too short,
it caused him an embarrassment in counting the days,
yet they were unforgettable moments of joyous and happy experiences
As he walked through the field with friends he talked about tomorrow
standing on the hill top side by side, he asked them to pray for him,
sitting on the sands by the water he sighed for he has to leave
the friends, the sweet and bitter memories behind
Nonetheless, he cannot just stand by a roadside as an emotionless stone,
he crosses the hill under the shade of a waning moon, and when
the humble hearted teary-eyed wanderer blooms as a lily on the other side of
the hill in dawning, the sunray fall on the lily on the dew
as hope to those who remember him, as happiness to the friends
he left behind, as the covenant of the Lord to all who trust in him
Everyone, from children to grownups,
carry the world in their hands, they see the past
and the future simply by the move of their thumbs and fingers;
from their very spot they fly in the air hanging onto the mixture of
illusion and reality.
The little glass plate they are staring at is,
though, a two dimensional world, they go
beyond the fourth dimension and reach the world of infinity,
the time of conception to death, while creating a totally anew concept
of time that is a mixture of kairos and chronos.
Because you see everything at the same time
in this little glass plate, layer after layer of thickened image
starts to fall to cause the chaos, the distorted image crumbles.
When a child finds Hydra in the little flat glass plate he held,
he challenges Hydra, and after a long difficult fight, though
he cuts a head off from this great serpent, a drop of blood
numbs the child, with venom spitting out from the mouths
of the remaining heads it deadens the child. Then, after all,
the Hydra’s blood and venom overtake the child’s shrunken brain,
the child becomes a fierce monster himself.
For a grownup,
while watching Laokoon and his two children locked in the coils of
hissing snakes, agonizing. He undergoes unbearable torment himself,
as if Laokoon was tortured by the snakes, stretching his arms in the air
to grab something that may lessen the intensity of horror.
From the touch of smooth
but cold skin of the snake,
he shudders, he frightens, he feels death.
The child, comes and goes from here to yonder world in no time,
led by the move of his fingertip, he came and sat with the devil
face to face, tries to trade junk the devil offers with his soul, though
immature, he is therefore reckless, but innocent.
The grownup who haunted by anguish,
walks on the path of life and death, because
he is unable to shake off the bad-omen he carries;
is now sitting in front of a poker table and through
the little flat glass plate in his palm, gazing at the numbers
on the playing cards; he irons his ragged soul with steaming-hot-iron
for external appearance, the soul that even the devil won’t take in
pledge for filthy lucre.
It’s outrageous but,
all generations alive today, seem to be confined
in the little flat glass plate, they live as the slave of the fingertip.
SUN-BLOCK
Your sunset-sanctioned skin ignite melody to boredom world
Your gently pearling smile charm the attention of morning sun.
Your charmed souls burn in nuclear passion
To absorb the bombardment of your ink
You are the unsolved mystery of existence
By pd
The sunrises 10 feet off the ground
This place carried the eternal light I need for my soul to soar.
Like the clouds every poet brush away my blues with one simple smile
Writing ignited my heartbeat to flicker like a candlewick non-stop.
I hold that piece of puzzle that makes my existence complete
Elegantly you walk, Venus-like
Printing glory-of-gods on excited earth
Holding hostage your admirers' eyes
With your Gabriel-censored attire
You are truly the mystery of existence
By pd
My eyes I keep holding on tight.
Gathering dangerous looks, from every poets eyes.
Striking like a speed of thunder bolt,
I fell weak like an addict to my admires streak of rays'
I'm the piece of puzzle that makes my own existence complete
Oh beautiful empress of poetry soup.
Wake thy muse and shake off the dust of block
Your fans are in inferno hunger of your welded words
Feed us again, your poetic meal that somersault the arrows of critic
For you are the unsolved mystery of existence
By pd
A great source to gather the best light here on the soup.
I found my heart beating like a rush~ spontaneous
Imaging every poem that helps me get lost in the moment
I wrote against and among the best to be like the rest
For I'm that unsolved piece of puzzle that makes my existence complete
You are kinder than nature, more hospitable than mother earth
Man and woman scramble for shelter in your cheerful hearts
For your contest, all thoughts erect pines of words
With rush of the sea storm
P.D. (( Linda )) is the unsolved mystery of existence
By pd
Losing myself to reality, this is not like me to fall into deep.
Times maybe hard, not even a simple song to poet my mind.
The truth is, the sun has blinded me with love, and I have no SUN-BLOCK
Until my instincts tells me otherwise, I will find my way back to all my fans * true or not
I (IRMA~LINDA) am responsible for the happiness of my mysterious existence.
BY : JOSEPH & LINDA
For Pd's collab with me contest
Padraig's Fire
Hurry!
Hurry through the night
With windstorms
Breathing at your back
Before the shadows know
You pass their doors -
Their darkened, dusty, empty hearths -
Before the dawn ascends -
Before the pipes awaken;
Carry close
Precious flint and tinder
Next to the wildly beating
Warmth -
Beneath your flowing cape.
Hurry!
Hurry down the rolling path,
Rising up to meet your feet,
Sweetly caressing your rushing steps,
Passing sentinels
Of ancient oaks,
Graveyards
Where primeval elms once stood,
That guard a narrow door
Of the river Boyne
Watching over Tara's keep
In a valley of wild rushing eddies
Shedding superstitions
Restraining deep planted longings.
Hurry!
No faire voices invitation;
Only life, held out in promises,
Beckons pilgrims here -
Pass through the numbing chill
Going down to rise up
Past myths
Into inviting aires and covenants;
Pass through the chill of seperation;
Pass through the swirling current
Gripping to release sandaled feet;
Hold high the flint and tinder
Then rest within the hollows of a hand
In quiet glens of grace.
Listen!
Listen for the kerry drums
Pounding welcome in swirling reels -
Ancient dances -
Reawakened from Adam's time
Released from sleep to circle round and round
While sparks from glowing tinder,
Brought to life from sharpened flint,
Battle winds of haunted years
That lived in isolation
Pulling up from fiery spindles flaming whorls -
New and paschal fire returning;
Circles meeting circles thunder
In death's shattering death.
Listen!
Listen as the moan of banshees
Banishes forever winter's touch
To see the sleeping hills
Shake off an exiled life
And hear the harps - uilleann pipes,
Newborn visions
Watch the wind dance of the kells begin
With towering fireworks
Shooting up from the valley floor
In rhythm to the bohdran and the tiompan
To seek completeness
In the hotly glow of dawning -
Vernal offerings in emerald fire.
Arise!
Arise to cradle emerald fire
Dreaming ever softly
In fields of clover
And timeworn stones,
Witnesses
To the arrival of winnowing flames
When centuries embraced
Again
Until the days remembering
Final meals and crosses - a waiting tomb -
Blesses once again
The quest of hard flint and soft tender
Before a cross - life within a circle.
Someone saw me digging through the trash this morning
And gave me five bucks
The embarrassed gin-mace of the nursing home volunteer
Plastered to his face
For the three seconds I could see it
Before he looked away
Everyone is more human than you'd imagine in these streets
So I bought two Blacks and a Hershey's Milk Chocolate bar
And I watched the candy wrapper blow into the drainage ditch
And I picked up a lighter someone had dropped on the ground
One those cheap, translucent ones that will melt
If you keep the flame burning too long
And I made my way back to the place where I sleep
Everyone is more human than you'd imagine in these streets
At the intersection, I run into Mike
Flying the, "Hungry" sign that I'd watched him make
With some recycled cardboard and a jumbo Sharpie
On the floor of my abandoned-building living room
Because he was hungry
And KFC hadn't thrown away anything edible in days
Everyone is more human than you'd imagine in these streets
Wiping my fingers of my snack's melted remains onto the cutoff denim
That I've been wearing for six days
I round the corner and see J trying to shake off the cops
That have him pinned against the security fence around our camp
Ryan tells me he has a warrant and an eight-ball of speed in his pocket
Sucks, he was supposed to see his daughters tomorrow
Everyone is more human than you'd imagine in these streets
When it's safe, I slip into my sparsely insulated corner of a Texas July
Sweating from the core-heat I've trapped against a discarded mattress
And remembering that I used to look at us
The way Five-Dollar-Dude looked at me this morning
Before I learned the hard way that we're just seeking some of the comfort
Enjoyed by the very condo-dwellers who frustrate our ability to obtain it
Everyone is more human than you'd imagine in these streets
And I'm not saying everyone out here is a saint
But I am saying if you need a dollar or a cigarette
You've got better odds asking someone camping under the overpass
Than someone with one hand on the door of their Lexus
And the other one smoking a Marlboro Red
And I think when you don't have anything, that Marlboro can tell you a lot
Original Poem: poetrysoupdotcomslashpoemslash51stunderscorestreetunderscore1599123
No rhyme nor reason why
yours truly recalled how
me late mother
(earlier in her fitbit livingsocial years)
non verbally communicated disgust
(insync with audible sigh)
quite often ultimatums
blasting fulminating nauseating
scathing well nigh
she loosed loathing against
grungy looking son (guess who)
futilely escaped wrath of Harriet Khan
clamoring upon rooftop high
offering birds eye view
out of earshot and eyesight aye
catching sunbeams while smiling wry
cowardly lion sought divine intervention
courtesy sheltering sky
acres of shingles I sprawled
these lovely bones did lie
property of garden variety generic guy.
She who helped beget and birth
sole heir inheriting gamut of behavioral quirks
linkedin with many predecessors,
who trod, slunk, roamed...
across planet Earth.
Best bet said present day scribe i.e.
poetic, nonesstablishmentarian, liberal,
jesting, humble, freelance, dilatory bummer
whose hindsight evinced a student dumber
than his classmates wheedled
(as targeted scapegoat) by bullies their flummer
re: entrapped - worse louse than lice
internalized trauma left figurative tread marks
analogous to raging road runner
pressing accelerator pedal of hummer
driven by (an actual person) one Roger Kummerer.
Despite agonizing vicious tongue lashing
against flesh and blood,
which venomous invisible whiplash
never petered out
(even when sundry bloke
got married and gladly left home)
abusive treatment markedly
left appalling, loathing and percolating
ambivalence if though mama passed away
(these last seventeen plus years) wrung
cash crop of poetic endeavors,
albeit resultant lackluster
literary crafted aspirations.
Memory of mom overshadowed
by similar facsimile thereof
think shrieking banshee,
an indelible psychological imprimatur,
I strive to acknowledge
emotional reverberations to date
(May 27th, 2021).
My trademark wordsmith fashioned communiqué
impossible mission to shake off bittersweet feelings
toward once (former) Arthur Murray dance instructor
which fancy footwork synchronized with favorite
debonair handsome young fella (papa)
both flirts buoyant with elan and energy
only thru death will angst become free
interestingly enough hands will clap with glee.
Written: March 08, 2025
************************
The silence keeps us apart—
quivering quietly near the cusp of dawn,
when hushed voices disappear.
It can be both tumultuous and challenging—
dark, dynamic, and daunting,
all at one breath.
Only the windows to the souls glimmer,
mirroring our reflections,
unveiling secrets often overlooked,
a striking scene,
painted in gentle pastel hues —
Intense passion drives us,
fracturing our spirits within.
My heart, once haunted and burdened,
by painful hints of deceit.
Now it dangles divinely from a tree.
Worn and weary,
the tearful, wine-tinted wails linger,
lost in the luxurious,
lusciously dark.
As his crimson-coated souvenirs
spill into disarray.
As I step boldly toward my true self—
I feel the beginning of a reshuffling
emerging from a past, steeped in silence —
I embark on an exhilarating journey,
one that shines as a starry night sky.
Standing before the mirror,
I experience a profound alteration
reconnecting with my sparkling plexus,
of the resplendent stardust within me,
I feel the tides of self-doubt gently receding.
This harmonious melody—
brings to light the hidden strength inside,
allowing me to find solace and peace.
Behold this remarkable wave,
of determination washing over me.
I stand resolute in the face of distress,
shake off gloom heavy grip,
and let pass of the burdens
of anxiety and self-doubt.
I gather my fractured thoughts,
as they scatter across the ground,
and pick them up with care,
grasping the precious insights
that send shivers of excitement through me.
Witness my whimsical mend,
as I become something epic,
allowing my potential to flourish,
nurtured by the legacy of my roots.
Their steadfast support
resonates deep within my soul,
instilling in me courage and resilience,
my needs exceed my expectations.
In honor of the victories
that comes from my success,
and newfound freedom,
I celebrate the journey of
the weary traveler who has
carefully chronicled my life's stories;
my strength has blossomed beautifully.
Now is the utopian moment for me
to seize control of my destiny.
Now Buxton is the place to stay when hiking in “the Dales”,
But your schedule’s shot to pieces if you’re troubled by strong gales,
On a campsite in the Pennines the wind was blowing bitterly
I confided to the warden’s wife, “Next year I’m off to Italy”.
So I asked my boss for overtime and accrued a tidy sum,
My girlfriend don’t like pasta so she didn’t want to come,
I planned to see some galleries and architectural sights,
I borrowed several brochures and I booked some budget flights.
I met a waiter in a restaurant on a vibrant street in Pisa,
He’d offer me a holiday if I were not a geezer.
Could I shake off the tradition or am I wedded to my gender?
It’s a fashionable mission. Should I let him call me Brenda?
I like the foods of Italy, they’ve tonnes of tasty meals
But would I ever feel relaxed in a necklace and high heels?
Oh I’d return from Tuscany with fond romantic tales
Of operatic ecstasy and tall Italian males.
People shed their inhibitions, often break their wedding vows,
Would he buy me splendid dinners if I wore a skirt and blouse?
Could I elongate my lashes and step out in jewels and finery?
Is it time to leave this closet and declare myself non-binary?
Should I use the ladies’ restroom or still hang-out in the gents’,
Simply tell the folks around me that I’m sitting on the fence?
If I walked into the barber’s shouting "Rid me of this beard!"
Would he relish my exuberance, or think me rather weird?
I’d talk no more of football teams or the merits of real ales,
I’d think about nutritious food and the colour of my nails.
I would give up wearing neckties and my slacks would be less dismal,
I might sit at a reception desk, though the pay would be abysmal!
I might alienate mates if I keep changing genders,
Should I book into a clinic? - no the prospect sounds horrendous!
I still prefer to lead when I’m dancing down at gigs
And I’ll be auctioning my wardrobe full of brassieres and wigs.
My local mosque has two approaches, men and women are divided,
They’ll soon need an extra doorway, for committed undecided.
Subdivided laundrettes are another implication,
I think I’ll ’phone that waiter and decline his invitation.
All by myself again; alone with my thoughts that are dancing forward and
backwards in my mind of things and events of the past-mistakes I have made;
regrets, decisions favorable; unfavorable; joys, sorrows, pains, and hurts-
wondering how my life might have been different If.......................
Oh! What futile ness in the quietness of my silence! What's the use in looking
back though? What can I change? What's done is done! And so.........
Of the wrongs, I repent; I turn; I leave it behind! I change my posture; I shake off
the shackles; I press forward to move on to the greater, the more enhanceable-
that which will lead me to a more prosperous, happier, rewarding place and
space in time--
To a life in the present that is worthwhile and fulfilling. A life of love, peace, joy
and genuine happiness. A life where every need is met in abunance with whole
baskets left over to share with others who are in need; and my desires are
granted in immeasurable quantities according to the Creator's perfect will and
purpose for my life.
The present where I am whole in spirit, mind, and body; in thought, word, and
deed; a place where all things are made to work together for my complete and
ultimate good; a place where love rules and reigns without dissimulation; a
place of no pretense, no guile, and no deceit; a place of power, of wisdom and a
sound, sober mind, uninhibited by foreign, outside agents that create a psuedo-
sense of genuine sublimity; a place of perpetual ecstacy-a life of bliss. A life of
balance. A life of truly living not just existing; not merely surviving but a life of more
than enough. A life of no lack. A life of increase spiritually, mentally, physically
and financially elevated to the maximum power of ten to the tenth power-----
Thus making my future bright, sensational, successful and dominated with and
in immeasurable blessings that make me and others around me rich, adding no
sorrow with it, for I am blessed and blessed indeed so that I might be a blessing
and a blessing indeed to others to the Glory of All Mighty God.
Silver moonlight dappled the forbidden fruit of Eden’s boughs
even as songbirds roosted alongside the serpent’s beguiling tongue.
His whispers echoed angelic refrains, lulling the forgetful.
Agency is power; granted only to gods, and choice is choice above all.
One juicy bite, deliciously self-empowering, changed everything.
The potency of a moment is found in the consequence of an impulse.
The power of time’s march is realized in throes of loss remembered.
Yet a clap of thunder bears tardy warning to one struck by a bolt,
and at my core, I am overwhelmed with the power granted me,
to alter, in small ways, the woven fabric of tomorrow’s reality.
So take my hand, and let us march together over that horizon.
May you, in hard times, support, encourage and remind me in my weakness
that our strength in darkness is found not in heaven, nor in ourselves,
but in remembrance of yesterday’s sunshine, and last night’s lullabies
which carried us peacefully through the unseen horrors of night.
From the mountain’s summit, as we gaze tomorrow by hopeful starlight,
watching the sky fall around us, swallowing up the remnants of today,
I beg pardon for my trembling soul, withering under the burden
to shake off the comfortable, and to forge anew the coming dawn
by force of will and careful expression of thoughtful introspection.
For it is potential, not reality, upon which heaven smiles eternally;
viewing through the lens of perfect-love our imperfections.
Even an hour before the devil fell, God thought him beautiful in Heaven,
yet in a moment, by agency, endowed in grace by God to his children,
a prince became a whispering serpent flecked with moonlight.
Might it be, that to fall from grace,
we need simply forget the weight of agency's burden?
Might it be, that to rise from a fall,
we need simply remember, and choose for ourselves a new reality?
Might it be, that God thinks the devil beautiful still?
2/20/16
Inspired by, but not written for, the contest, "Expand Arthur Miller's Thought," hosted by Julia Ward.