Long Slate Poems
Long Slate Poems. Below are the most popular long Slate by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Slate poems by poem length and keyword.
Inspired by Glenn Hughes song "Save Me Tonight ( I'll Be Waiting)"
You’ve left me, traced the trail of melting mirage,
I feel deserted like the desolate sands of dune.
How sadly my pent-up words ‘I need you’
I say with despair, you do not know.
On the sighing sea made of billion drops of tear,
descends the somber shadow of night’s slate sky,
split by the flying flash of a shooting star,
dissolves like my memory in the horizon of oblivion.
The transient flame of devoured desire trajectory
furrows in my mind a blazing trail of yearning.
I can’t trace the track of the spurting star,
for it flies away like the flicker of your love.
I sleep at the desolate edge of the lonely night,
I haven’t seen you shine like a star in my sky,
for you disappear behind the cloud of trance.
I’ve lost you, for I didn’t dream enough.
Your essence is with me as my second shadow,
fused with the abysmal darkness of my soul.
How many candles my love lights for you,
I’m waiting with pining heart to tell you.
As you walk away from my waned wasteland,
you’ll find love, not yet lost in the wilderness.
If you stand by my side under the bejeweled sky,
you’ll see the moondust set us aglow.
Take me through the night to the sunburst dawn
to your meadow gleaming with dew of longing.
That’s when you’ll feel you’re in love.
I’ll be waiting for that day till the end of my time.
Portrait
Through shades of life in subtle hues
Faded eyes invite imbedded memories,
Half hidden behind a worn visage
Where dreams still dance to celebrate a milestone,
Entwined in lost days of once up a time times,
Layered serene moments of rest invoking
A tranquil touch overlaid with the heavenly;
Quiet now the hands on life’s tiller,
Noise of the wounded spirit
Blotted out by wisdom gained in tinted ashen turmoil,
The pilgrim sits, interludes dance in crosshatch
Embraced, abiding in sacred values beckoning
A captured chroma in still life subtle serenity
Blended reveries reveal the pale intimate,
Stories stored in the compressed soul,
As deep lines of passing years soften – fade away –
In color palettes mixed with ochre joy and slate tears
Waiting for the next breath filled with treasures,
Softened intensities to burst through grey tones -
The soul’s pastel breath captured – released - unchained.
6-14-22
Contest: Pastel
Sponsor: Craig Cornish
Written: May 20, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Karen Jones
Inspired from Prince Song: When Doves Fly
**********************
I slipped the mirror mournful cry,
Where silhouettes lick the silvery sky.
There is no name or voice left to claim—
There was just airless slate and a flame.
A corroded sun starts to drown,
Its crown is a ring of ash and sound.
I donned my wreckage as a hymn,
Stillness buried the spirit within.
Celestial bodies discard where I've bled,
But roots remember every word I said.
I attempted to heal what mercy had torn,
With hollow hands—unclothed and forlorn.
The breeze once sighed, "I could rise,"
But each move was imbued with lies.
I hooked my terror to phantom gates,
I spotted it glitter, and now it waits.
I am unable to contain what life remains,
Each flicker is exhausted to yearn again.
So I inspire the twilight to bend—,
Allow me flames and reach an end.
If light emerges, avoid letting it blaze—
Allow it to fall softly in darkened haze.
Not involving a savior's dazzling flame,
Yet anguish interacts through my name.
The red rising sun has transformed
Into puffy white striated gray clouds
Pasted onto a blue, sky-blue sky
A lovely scene touched by cool air
The partly cloudy touch says
A chance of rain upon a dry land
Others have had some showers, but
So dry here, thank God no flood
Morn's sun lifts above the clouds
A brilliance sifts through the pecans
It lights up the shimmering dew 'pon the grass
Such a pleasant time on the porch
There are coyotes and dogs barking
Birds sing of nesting completed
I wonder do they know of winter
Or of a long winter's sleep
Does this year's hatchlings have instinct
Or is their brain a blank slate
Only God knows some of the answers
Because He was the one who created
LIVE FOR THE CHEERS, DIE BY THE BOOS
"If you live for the cheers
you'll die by the boos"
Ephemeral joyful pool of tears
exterminate joy and invite foes.
Deceitful applause and wrong peers
are both companions of fools.
Don't live for the world's cares.
Apply your mental tools,
the cheers are thorns over the years;
So, rather be alone than in twos.
"If you live for the cheers
you'll die by the boos";
Same cheerers, being your propellers
will slate you on totem poles.
Refuse to live by the cheers
and focus with the eye of bulls.
VickManuelPoetry {VMP}
Copyright©26thJuly2022.
Part 2: Accommodation
VII. Anamnesis
The slate was never clean
bore your name in your own hand
ts uncrossed, heavy pressure
when anxious, pen tearing through
leaving impressions every sentence after
must accommodate
must build itself
around the shape
of that first
gash
=======
VIII. What You Get
The myth promises cleavage—
clean—surgical—total.
What you get: continuity
messy, partial, exhausting.
Promises you'll be new. Hands you back yourself—
still in the original packaging
unopened—
same fingerprints,
same voice returning your own call
same welts you press—
checking—
the way you press elevator buttons
that are already lit—
to confirm
they still hurt.
=======
IX. The Second Midnight
Change is not the kiss at midnight—
not salvation from the cab ride after
the cab driver's air freshener—chem-pine—
making you nauseous
your lipstick smudged, the number saved
as "DO NOT RESURRECT."
Not salvation from the bottles
you'll replace by the second
the cold silver of the cork-top, telling yourself
wine's different—until it isn't—
as if the vintage
changes what it does
when you're alone at 3:39 a.m.
face in the glass slab—
checking for their text—text
and you are still
this mouth—
saying fine
in that voice
you recognize
but don't remember
teaching yourself.
The stray's voice.
Or yours.
=======
X. Again
On the third day
not the first (that manic start)
not the second (the gutting out)
but the third
you try again
Not because you believe this time will work
but because the body
has this routine
waking up
the ceramic thud of the unwashed mug
burning the toast
you know the right setting
but refuse to trust it
trying again
The river doesn't choose
to return to the stone.
The stone doesn't choose
to accommodate.
But the river returns
And the stone, eventually, shifts
tired of being stone
the river is the only thing that understands
You put your hand in the river
The cold makes you gasp
The stone doesn't
This is erosion becoming inspiration
the stone's dream
of being water.
Black Lightning
Strikes the ground, the tree,
and me… in the heart.
She left last night.
The clouds gathered all day,
So I should have expected it.
The most beautiful flower,
I have ever seen…
hates me.
She says she does not,
but she should.
I lied.
I understand.
There is a cost to telling the truth.
If you are ready to pay,
it does not diminish the pain,
that comes with a clean slate.
Although, it is never without stain.
Sin. A dark spot on the hands,
worse still on the soul.
A round place, a square place,
a place where you are made to fit in.
Not because you want too,
but because it feels good at the moment.
Well meaning friends,
drinking buddies,
people that have motives of their own.
or worse, no boundaries,
as they never bothered,
to set any.
Another woman, another man,
cheaters in the moment of heat.
Gamblers that trade away their families,
for coins that have no value,
in the cost of true life.
Liars, that make up stories,
so they can play, ‘
but friends… they pay.
They pay and pay,
and the cost…
is high.
I grew up believing America is so great
Only to learn that its people live in a divided state
So many innocent loved ones dying at an alarming rate
Why won't congress put assault weapons on their plate
For grieving families, it's much too late
Why must the American people have to wait
For lawmakers to get it straight
Special interest money opening the flood gate
Politicians playing with the innocent's fate
Backsliding always allowed to skate
The American people need to dictate
Our solution that wipes Washingtons slate
On how we govern our states
To ban assault weapons that only devastate
So we can decelerate and no longer tolerate
All of these shooters twisted hate
By letting our lawmakers know we will terminate
Sending our message we won't allow them to negotiate
This epidemic sending our loved ones to heavens gate.
First Snow
Daylight~
My world is covered with pure white snow
Untarnished
The branches of the red pine out my
Window, softly comforted with a thin blanket
Of downy fluff streets, unmarked by soot,
Await transgressions of human movement.
One contemplates at such times~
Hats, snow boots, scarves, packers and
Don't forget to throw the heavy survival blanket
I bought from Joyners in Grand Marais Mn...
(On one of my annual camping trips to the far
North with my daughters as they were
Growing up, showing them where to find
Peace in the real world God Created)
...Into the backseat of my car for those
Unexpected moments when caught outside
Demands prolonged warmth to avoid frostbite.
Naturally, one takes personal inventory
At such times, compensations really,
Mostly age related, necessities for making
It over the winter hump to hoped for, Spring.
There are tools I engage > seed catalogs begin
Arriving, thoughts of renewal, both of nature
And myself emerge in my thinking.
Am I worthy of such a renaissance? are there
Apologies or pleas of forgiveness needed?
Satisfied with conclusions, I convince myself
To venture forth in this clean slate ouside,
Properly self-chastened to avoid past potholes,
And enjoin my gentle imprints with other
Intrepid wanderers of the north country.
~ early November in Minnesota '18
I found him lying on his bed,
hair tousled and with a sweet smile.
I realized that he was dead.
I knew this was no show of guile.
A lifeless shell fueled with faith
betrayed a muted mask of wraith.
Though none, I called Emergency.
They asked me blankly, “Are you sure?”
No breath, stiff limbs, lividity –
a terminal illness, no cure.
“I’m sure (as Hell!), yes positive!”,
assuming that, the causative.
All three came as well as ER,
coroner, sheriff, mortician.
One to play the body’s chauffer.
One to judge the man’s condition.
One to say there was no more breath.
One to announce the “formal” death.
A cold harshness to the moment,
finality so sure and straight.
No use to sit down and lament.
Too late to try to clear the slate.
It is what it is, as they say.
Nothing further to do but pray.
An homage of his joy and bliss;
his ardour for life and nature.
His pure love for God not remiss;
his place within Heaven secure.
A faith-based life and in the end
all he wanted was one true friend.