Long Slumber Poems
Long Slumber Poems. Below are the most popular long Slumber by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Slumber poems by poem length and keyword.
Keeping Still
The fire has burned low my love.
I dare not move to fix it.
You have fallen asleep against my chest.
I feel you breathing.
I hear air, moving… in and out…
as you slumber.
Your hair is a wave of brown,
like a warm blanket,
the only comparison,
a treasure my grandmother,
would have made by hand.
You smell of the earth.
The trees and the outside,
have come inside with you.
We hiked all morning,
and now…
they are a pleasant memory,
swaying my senses
as I sit holding you close,
in my arms.
The fire has burned low my love.
I dare not move to fix it.
The Stranger with a Galaxy in His Chest
The price of my awakening is a vast and strange loneliness,
When my eyes open beyond the veil of the crowd's illusion,
I become a stranger among the masks asleep in their frozen slumber,
An exile from the shared dream, carried on the shoulders of the world's silence.
A galaxy has ignited in my chest, like a lighthouse forgotten by the gods,
Small stars are born and die inside the empty box of my ribs,
I carry a whole universe under my skin, where others carry only sparks,
And I walk barefoot on shards of mirror, through astral ruins.
Below, beneath my feet, the masks sleep in a slumber of ancient stone,
Faces without eyes, stitched into the fabric of one blind, collective dream,
I watch them dreaming the same shadows, the same fear, the same seal,
And I, awake, remain the only actor who stepped out of their absorbed script.
I wander through houses with blind windows, where others still sleep deeply,
Every room hides a mask calling me back into the herd,
But my threshold is different now, one that no longer leads to the same line,
And everything that once felt certain becomes only a prop, only a trace.
I have no companions in dream anymore, only the echo of my solitary footsteps,
Through cold corridors, above a sea of sleeping faces,
I carry the starry sky beneath my ribs like a sacred, fanatic wound,
A price paid for seeing beyond the masks called "lives lived."
And still I don't regret this cold light, though it burns me slowly, silently,
For better alone, awake, beneath my own sky growing in my chest like a citadel,
Than asleep again, eyes stitched shut, in the unseen fog
Of a world that sleeps softly, believing itself free, and yet is bound.
You whom are mighty
You who are full of hatred
You whom are powerful
You who lie and cheat...
Come, are't you tired
Oh, roaring lion
Come to Mount Zion
forget bout' tryin
to overcome
your no longer king
come worship in (here)
Truth and love
let's serve Him whom created us all
O' His amazing love
from up above
Dear lion forget
bout' the battle
you're ALL that matters
Lay down your swords
Lift up your hands and arms
The battle not yours but the LORD'S
say these words
you're here now
with me yes, come to me just rest in me
my child
yet still a lion
you go on now no longer defying
sleep, sleep
Peace
Joy and Love
My child, once wild
now at rest
slumber with the lamb
peace at last
mighty lion rest in me
opened your heart
let me impart
As the healing starts
Rest in me
I AM GOD
from above
embrace in the arms of Christ
And also rest in His amazing love
COME ROARING LION REST IN GOD'S AMAZING LOVE
8/9/18
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr.©2018
Login’s For Me, Me, Me!
Some carers are shite, debasing and all that, not fit,
Because just when I’m speeding to end my session,
When they’ve come in on another patronising visit,
They come over, bend down and adjust their vision.
So I growl in a low voice “Wot?” and they even proceed,
To say “What are you doing?”, so I cover up the screen,
With my fist, glance to the kitchen, sit up and concede,
“Nothing,” then they recede back to where they’ve been.
I change my login each time a new carer starts,
‘Cos they peer, peer, peer at my action of entering,
The numbers, and don’t seem to understand their quarts,
Are not intelligent, that they are myself outmanoeuvring.
I can only change my passcode a certain few times,
Since I am not Kevin on Eggheads so only remember,
A handful of historical events for password recall oftimes,
And that memory efforts are not for my times of slumber.
It’s different if I’m playing a game, that’s communal,
High scores are topical and cheats are conversation,
But I never play, and even if I did, that’s personal,
‘Cos I’m not as quick anymore, feel like a station!
Disappointed Devil - Hood Das Fume And Fret
'Curse darned demon
of that thar
underworld nudged me abet
as a permanent solution
to a temporary problem
i.e. principally no money
and rising debt
not for a long time didst
I feel so distressed didst,
where no amount of
optimism could get
back joie de vivre ebullient elan,
that oft times fines me jet
ting hither and yon, to and fro,
until spent energy met
fatigue, whence sand
man gave his pet
tickle yore sleep inducing
sprinkling granular set
tat heave, albeit
non off fence sieve tet
deep slumber didst
hone like a whet
stone, less drastic alternative versus
welcoming grim reaper, yet
eventually, aye reckon
this human machine
moost give up the ghost
boot not now,
cuz this moment hike ken boast...,
an immediate diminution
of anguish, viz unlike as told
yesterday, the monthly doled
social security automatic direct
electronic deposit extolled
joyus relief, viz checking account
death rattle didst sense a gold
din shimmer and em bold
qua slight monetary profusion
lowering destitution,
asper dearth of monies
allowing ease to un fold,
which severe dire straits rolled
forward respite
with money for nothing
oppressive full (rick kitty)
full Nelson neck
i.e. near choke hold
rejuvenated brittle psyche mold
during self feeling auld
also attendant temp
purred critical pull
away woe decreased yielding
(all "talk" and no action),
following thru with desperate,
sans destructive (irreversible)
actions unable to hold,
metaphorical tiger of despair
by the figurative tail,
where soul of mine
almost got "sold"
for a pittance (NOT penitence)
to the Prada devil
(or similar facsimile thereof)
rational self didst scold
spewing idle "FAKE"
hollw we ning suicidal threats,
not necessarily bold
cuz, this scribe did not write
his last (nor first,
second, third...) will
and testament before death,
would hove found
me stiff and cold.
—Tale of a wanderer who goes with a piece of myth—
The wanderer drifting in the wilderness searching for a long absent
darling leans against the moonlight at times. Wet with dew, is there any chance; you will one day, lay your exhausted body on a cold bed to slumber? But instead of a sweet dream: you will hang on a sharp edged axe; while crying and moaning, hunted by a nightmare. You will, then, wake up in a cold sweat, swept by surging waves.
Then: as a bright star appears in the sky; along with
the gleam of daybreak; light driving moonlight away;
the crystallized water drops; the star brought in the window,
will become the deadly poison of a viper and bite into your flesh,
in the blink of an eye.
It’s neither Eden nor Eurydice’s heel. It’s the calamity
upon yourself. You didn’t decline, but laid your weary body,
one night, on the bed offered by Procrustes. Bleeding from the ankles, both feet chopped off by Procrustes’ axe, with no way to turn your misfortune or to blame but yourself.
Although it’s blood, it’s really not blood,
they are a line of brood of vipers forming like
a stream advancing to the woods of the delta searching for
an underground tunnel; a dirge, the tongue-less Philomela’s
piercing shriek. It’s Philomela’s agonizing shudder, disgusted
from the conception of the seed of death.
Itys’ head on a tray: reflecting in the daybreak glow; will ask.
“Why are you lodged in such a terrible inn of all inns? Though
I won’t ask you, but still, want to know
why are you. The fool Tereus? Did you do such terrible thing?
Though you have a virtuous beautiful wife at home,
why then, o thoughtless wanderer, did you walk on a path
just like Tereus’? As a consequence: you must cry; beating your breast; listening to the sound of lyre; that even stops to roll the wheel of fire; for a while, with its mournful tune.”
1. Eurydice 2. Procrustes 3. Philomela 4. Itys
5. Tereus 6. Ixion 7. Orpheus’ lyre
Inside fortress* that offers rest
my weary soul breathes out blest sigh
lulled to slumber midst noisy pest
while to the Saviour I draw nigh
My heart welcomes music of hope
inside fortress that offers rest
as misty eyes serenely cope
with guitar strums reaching love’s crest.
Etching my mind with winning zest
Word of God prods me to fight pain
inside fortress that offers rest
smiting doubt’s cajole --- by faith’s gain.
Now, I’ll soar for triumphant flight
since revived, warmed in prayer nest
as lilacs waft courageous plight
inside fortress that offers rest.
*Psalms 18:2 The LORD is my rock, and my fortress, and my deliverer; my God, my strength, in whom I will trust; my buckler, and the horn of my salvation, and my high tower.
August 17, 2024
1st place, "Eight Words 2" Poetry Writing Contest
Sponsored by Joseph May; judged on 8/27/2024
Ferocious winds, sleet turned -------------------- Snow.
Another day off of work, poetry -------------------- and
Time to shovel my drive. 25 MPH ----------------Winds
Hold me hostage in my abode. I ----------------- Keep
Enclosed, I rose from slumber. -------------------- Me
Rattled, never, I have heat where I'm ------ Contained.
Whistling winds whisper in my ear as I'm ------ Shoveling
Inches and feet, pierced by icy sleet a ----------- Slushy,
Nasty mess. Continuing to fall, no break, the -- Snow
Teases me. My third cup of coffee, shaken, ---- Mixed,
Encased in a thermos with Amaretto Swiss. ----- Icy
Rain, little spears, fierce in these windy ------- Conditions
Jared Pickett
2/10/2010
Asavvy1
I am a perennial winner
Cause I refuse to be a loser
I am programmed for victory
And I vehemently refuse to walk by sight
Nor by what my circumstances look like
For what is seen is temporary
I refuse to allow my situation
To dictate the direction of my prayer or confession
For I can not rise above my confession
Confession determines the life I enjoy
Whatever I give my attention minutely
Is what I have become in reality
Let your confession therefore
Be in line with God’s promises
When hard times strike
Do not take the route of complaints
Nor get frightened by what you see around you
Cause the unseen hands of God
Who does not sleep or slumber
Work behind the scenes
To change you through your circumstances
For hard times are meant to improve you
And adequately prepare you for promotion
And not to impair you
So welcome challenges with all your heart
And confess success through your challenges
The Poet knows his light burns eternal
Has dealt the world-- Love, his handy Trump card
Youth struck by love we age Oh! infernal
In bloom the chase the glory of the bard
When we are naught but glories of our past
And the plump gourds all but mould and wither
Small black mirrors in their eye’s we last
And the final light we seek go thither
And the rose petals demur Times request,
The laurels we earned, the longings all fade
Taught skin, ambition lieth down at Ages behest
And cincture of fact is lost long-loves gaze
New charms bloom sun n ’Nature to tear asunder
As we prepare for the dark deep slumber