Long Shook Poems
Long Shook Poems. Below are the most popular long Shook by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Shook poems by poem length and keyword.
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I went to bed one night and woke to snow,
it was so serene as snowflakes still fell;
I was lonely and I tried to not show,
for my childhood cat had been so unwell.
I held her in my arms 'till she was stone,
and sang a lullaby to take with her;
my heart was broken like a shattered bone,
then, outside among trees there was a stir.
So, I bundled up warm to have a look,
and out popped a kitten running to me;
standing there waiting she shivered and shook,
it was sweet love for me and she, and we.
I like to think God sent me this kitty;
he saw my deep sorrow and took pity.
_______________________________
November 25, 2019
Written for the contest, I Want To Fall In Love with A Sonnet
sponsor, Melanie Udaeta
The longer you run, the more they chase.
At least, that’s what they told me.
And I complied.
Because that’s what women like me do.
When your own heart seems to fade, you run.
You run, so the heart remembers its own existence.
You run, so the heart remembers to beat.
And I ran.
I ran until my lungs threatened to ghost me.
How ironic.
I ran until my limbs dragged on like lead in the ruins of my own angst.
I ran until my bones shook with the force of my sheer will to outrun my very own shadow.
And suddenly,
Attention.
The men piled up like bedsheets on a laundry day.
Each one treating me like a conquest for their own egos.
But I seem to have forgotten how to stop.
I run and I push.
I run and I slam doors.
I run and I’m labelled.
Untouchable.
Yet at the end of the day, all I am is untranslatable.
Unreachable.
Unattainable.
I was told the more you run, the more they chase.
When all it does is amplify your bone-rotting solitude.
#These_graves
Wait! Am I stepping on someone's grave? no one seems to answer, but the bowing of their head down, gives me the actual answer, that's pain forcing their heads down. Where should I step when everywhere the ground, seems to be covered with graves, not marked but lives were lost there, at some point
I shook my head, my eyes blurred, my heart aches, I'm overwhelmed, wondering why and who are these, which I'm daily stepping on. These are someone's father's, brother's and sisters. No tombs , no engraves, no numbering, all thrown like carcasses, but they are corpses, what about their dignity, the human spirit value?
Apartheid has contaminated the mother Africa soil, with her children's blood, and violence has acersibated the horrendousness, the shooting, the stabbing and suicides on life giving trees, earth is no longer covered with graves but it's now a cemetery, itself, we no longer devided by fences and palisades , we are now one, for the spirits now roams everywhere, we are now covered, permanent mourners
These realities makes me sob, who should account? Who shall fix? what just can't be fixed, me continuing stepping on these graves makes me not innocent, for the no more are and should be respected but I'm without choice, crying and complaining won't redress what has been, the damage is permanent, irreversible, these graves
#Poetic_Ink
A friend told me
over a cup of joe
that the devil quakes in Prada,
barring the gates of hell
from the one who now hunts
beyond the mortal plane.
I chuckled, asking
“If that were the case,
wouldn't the sky be a constant
affixed with blinding cracks
electrifying both day and night?”
He simply shook his head, grinning.
Then the flash of a screen drew attention
to images of Death shell-shocked,
huddling in a hospital bed, quaking
with agonized fervor as if
he saw Death himself and lived.
It was then I knew
he was speaking the truth
as the sky crackled above
with bolts clashing
like steeled fists,
reunited at last.
Dear Father
(if that title ever belonged to you)
You were never a man.
You were an absence with a name.
You married a woman you did not protect,
broke her until survival looked like escape,
then watched her walk into the dark
with a baby in her arms
and called it not your problem.
You left us to hunger.
To beg.
To sleep wherever mercy failed last.
I watched other children stand tall
on shoulders you built for them,
while I learned early
how to fold myself smaller
so I would not be noticed,
so I would not be rejected again.
Your other children carry your surname like Armor.
I carry it like a wound.
When you died, nothing in me collapsed
because nothing was ever built.
No bedtime stories.
No hands to pull me back from danger.
No voice saying you are safe now.
Just silence.
Long.
Loud.
Cruel.
And yes
I blame you.
I blame you for the nights
my mother lied to my face with a smile
while terror shook her from the inside.
For the streets of Malvern at
2 a.m.,
where a woman and her child learned
how invisible desperation can be.
I blame you for the doors that closed
because we were poor,
because we were mixed,
because we were inconvenient.
You knew she was weak.
You knew she could not fight the world alone.
You knew what would happen to us
and still you chose comfort
over responsibility,
over blood,
over me.
I became a burden before I became a child.
Shelter came with conditions.
Silence came with survival.
And I learned that pain is something
you swallow whole
when speaking would cost you the ground beneath your feet.
You were supposed to be my roots.
Instead, I grew in cracks.
Bent.
Bruised.
Trampled.
People ask why I lack confidence.
How do you stand tall
when no one ever taught you
you had the right to exist?
I was never your angel.
I was never anyone’s priority.
I was just the consequence
of a man who walked away.
So don’t ask me to mourn you.
Don’t ask me to forgive you.
You died a stranger
who shaped my suffering from afar.
You were my father only in biology
never in love,
never in protection,
never in presence.
And if hell exists,
know this:
I survived you.
And you will never be able to say the same
#How_belitled_and_demoralized
my intuitiveness turned into a floor door mat, my innate abilities, said to be incompetent, my ego tarnished, worse when the gift I embraced in my palms from birth, as a token of blessing from heaven to this very land of men n creatures, titled whack n premature by a foreign nationalist, whom saw refugee to my ancestors soil. The mouth that puked on my ego, the words that tossed my humility n humanity a lil astray, my body catching temperatures so fuming n patient dismantling
a near blast of self reserve, the grounds I'm standing on trembling, my self esteem tilting, time pacing so unusual, nothing making sense, everything sounding irrelevant n useless, all these bringing back the dragon in me to life, everything n everyone losing shape n size to my presence, hell standing attentioned to the aftermath, my ancestors flattening, while my creator shook his head n said "there's no obstacle, which can exceeds ur strength n faith" then my whole body n mind shuts down n the human in came back to conscious
that ache, which torched my visibility, seen as a thread to a fellow brother of colour, how envy n jealousy pollutes man mind n heart, with internal hate n anger, blocking breathing ports for citizenship n reasons unbearable to ones life n loved ones, which freed man out of Egypt"a country of starvation n human oppression slavery " n a promised land which came as the only choice not a promised one, being that of which I received my swearing, just after couple of full stomach nights, made possible by a whiteman n my personality suddenly puked upon
#Poetic_Ink
Merlin cast a special spell and made a telephone
The speaker was quite dodgy and he had a little moan
But still he made one more for making phone calls from his wagon
Then conjured up another one for young Arthur Pendragon
He took a call and recognised King Arthur’s crackling tone
Merlin couldn’t make him out and muttered down the phone
Sorry, Boss, I’m at a loss, my phone I heard it ring
But ever since I answered it I cannot here a thing
Arthur said again the thing that Merlin had to do
And Merlin shook his head, “My Lord, I am not hearing you.”
When Arthur spoke a final time as clearly as he could
Merlin was at last quite certain that he’d understood
Arthur cut the call just as Queen Guinevere was passing
She said what was all that about, you know I’ll keep on asking
Arthur said I told the man as clear as I was able
That for your birthday I require a really fine brown sable
***
With her present sorted all the knights were sat around
And Merlin said she’s coming don’t nobody make a sound
Guinevere walked in as Merlin stroked his lucky cat
And when she saw the table she said, ‘What the …. .. ….
Heirloom events are often solemn occasions
Weddings, high school or college graduations
Grandfathers take sons or grandsons aside
To bequeath his pocket watch with pride
Slowly he'll raise the timepiece to his ear
Pause and listen to the ticking gears
He'll dangle the chain, click cover to open
Reverently hold the beloved token
Peering at crystal face with serious affects
Both mentally count second hand’s ticks
With nod of head, grandfather might relay
Special words of wisdom in his own way
I remember with fondness my own ceremony
Granddad’s advice more valuable than money
“Thing about time sure to help you through...
Is be where you are whatever you do”
Thanking my Granddad, we shook hands
In hindsight I know I did not fully understand
Years swiftly passed with many tick tocks
Today I give my son Granddad’s pocket watch
Original Written Jan. 17, 2016
Revised April 20, 2018
Early Childhood Memory Contest -
By Line Gauthier - Any Rhyme Form - April 24, 2018
First Place
Bedtime Battle
My momma said,
“It’s time for bed,”
but I’m not
sleepy yet.
I shook my head
as if to say,
“I’m not
even ready.”
In my defense,
I wasn’t really tired.
“Put your PJs on,
go brush your teeth.
It’s time to go to sleep.”
I thought of
a quick rebuttal:
“If I slumber now,
I’ll wake up much,
much too early.”
It only took
a single look
at Mother’s tired face
to know I must comply—
Mom was both judge and jury.
Her verdict:
off to bed.
I could not win this case.
I dragged my feet,
gave one loud sigh,
my face all wet with tears
as I stomped off to bed.
I don’t know why
I have to go to bed.
I told her
she should go instead.
A Top A Highland Hill
A top a windswept highland hill above Locheil land
Clansmen gathered roun and shook the princes haun
They raised the standard high cheered till they were hoarse
Followed the flying heron across the highland gorse.
A,wa tae London toon wi hopes held dear in heart
O pitting Cherlie oan a throne whaur he richtly belonged
Dreams o highland jacobites tae rule oor blessed laun
An nation free aw europes stifling haun.
As so aften happens dreams die oan a wrang move
And at Derby juist nor o London toon
It wiz decided that we would go forrat nae mair
So wi turned an heided hame wi hairts ower sair.
Goerdie boy sent his airmie chasin us
A the wey back to scotias verdant green
Up an doon , doon an up aw ower the place
Till at Drummossie moor we met them face to face.
Oor clans were weary and tired oot
But charged intae them none the less
Their guns ripped through oor ranks ripping us to shreds
We scattered , whit was left, to oor wee bit hill an glen
Cumberland , the butcher boy chased us yince again
Tae oor ancestral hames reducing them to ash
Murdered those who fought and lost and innocents alike
Even the auld yins infirm an ill still biding in their beds.
The craws they feasted well oan highland blood an guts
Plaids an kilts an a, were hidden in the straw
Oor prince he hid awa n,er tae return tae us
But were er we be wi toast him wi oor cups.
Andrew P McIntyre November 2011.