Long Someone Poems
Long Someone Poems. Below are the most popular long Someone by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Someone poems by poem length and keyword.
Now the public library in our town contains the knowledge for mankind,
and there’s not much happening ‘round the world, that I cannot find.
I can think of any subject that I like and tell Jenny what I’m after,
and she can find a stack of books that darn near touch the rafter.
The library’s helped me countless times from days when I’m at school,
and I’ve become a handy man with books my back up tool,
but aside from books on lifestyle needs, on fiction some are geared,
and some authors write for little kids, and some write on the weird.
I’ve hired books about our history and read about some shocking wars.
Our garden is designed from books, and I’m obsessed with reading ‘Jaws’.
But crime became my new desire with cases filed from years gone by,
where Capital Punishment was handed down and why some had to die.
Description of the victims sent a chill right through my bones,
right to the guilty on death row with all their over-tones.
I read about their last few weeks, with how and why and where,
before they took their final walk to the electric chair.
One story written by a Warder based in a Southern US gaol,
is penned about a chilling case that for you I will unveil …
Leroy murdered seven folk; the warder wrote down in this book.
For twenty years appeals were held then Leroy’s goose was cooked.
When you’re with someone for twenty years, no matter what they’ve done,
you can form a slight attachment even if a fragile one.
So one week before that final stroll Leroy was asked by Warder Black,
if there’s something special that he’d like, and Leroy answered back.
“There is something I do desire - but it must involve me faithful wife.
“My wish is” Leroy grinned. “Is to eat her meatloaf now for life”.
Well Leroy’s wish was granted and for three meals every day,
he ate the meatloaf that he begged for while the hours ticked away.
On the eve of Leroy’s execution there was tension being shown.
The corridors were creepy now with a ghostly eerie tone.
Forgotten were the seven victims - in the morning there’s one more.
Leroy must face ‘old sparky’ waiting down that corridor.
His final meal of meatloaf was brought before him on a plate.
Said Warder Black with teary eyes “You don’t look worried mate!”
Leroy laughed “I’m not my friend, that chair won’t kill me man.
If this meatloaf couldn’t do me in - I know that nothing can!”
I set out to write a verse
A verse of prayer and praise
Words to worship the One
Who created me and gave to me
A sense of hope, purpose, faith
Love that lingers in my soul
Capturing the essence of joy
I set out to write my thoughts
Pertaining to my Lord
The One who caused me to love
With all my heart and soul
Without conditions, limits or terms
With everything that He gave
Appreciation, kindness and grace
I set out to give back to Him
A bit of the love He’d given me
The compassion and gentleness, the charity
That came alive with a prayer for His
Love to open up my heart
And light the spark that was hope
Abiding there within my soul
I set out to bring worship to Him
Who had brought affection to my spirit
Singing to me of dreams everlasting
On visions that whisper through my heart
Forcing me to listen to the brilliant thoughts
Discovered in the miracle of His gifts
The treasure of joy found within - through Him
I set out to live my life for Him
Despite many mistakes, sins that left me sorry
I gave my best, leaving all the rest
To bring to Him my greatest attempts to give
With a heart that appreciates His gift
Of salvation, deliverance, escape from anguish
That comes to those who do not believe
I set out to listen to the whisper
Of His still, small voice – His direction
His correction, affection and the connection
That caused me to believe in His wisdom and strength
The blessing of love so alive it could dance
Through the soul on a breath from His lips
Breathing out love so sweet it leaves pure peace
I set out to give someone a chance to see
The hope, faith and love that live inside of me
Because I took the hand of the One who died for me
And listened to the voice of my Father God
Who told me to live as if I had His heart
And could love better than I could every imagine
With a love that’s been lit by a fire of compassion
I set out to give someone joy and hope
But soon discovered that He had given me the gift
Through the wisdom that lives within
When He answers a prayer I’ve prayed
For words to give back to someone a part of me
The piece of my heart that knows
He is there, alive and wise, controlling it all
I set out to give and found… His love within my soul
Love that is my eternal goal
I sit there on that wooden bench, simply sitting. I am not waiting for someone, not for anything. Sunlight peeks through the leaves of the two oak trees whose branches are mingling above my head. It is pleasant to feel its warmth. There is no reason for me to be outside other than the cigarette resting between my middle and index fingers. I walked down three flights of stairs to simply sit and smoke and be judged by the occasional passersby. I lift the cigarette to my lips and place it there gently. It sort of dangles there as I light the lighter in one hand and cup the other around the flame to protect it from a nonexistent breeze in the dry Southern heat. I suck in, trying to puff, which is hard to do without a hand to steady the cigarette, but it is lit and that is what matters. I take a deep drag, deep into my lungs, deep into my soul, and I can feel the calm wash over me. The nicotine is my oxygen; I can’t breathe without it sometimes. I blow the smoke out, admiring its delicious taste and scent. I like to hold the slowly smoldering cigarette in my right hand and then smoke out of the left side of my mouth. The way I hold it makes me look like a nineteen-forties gangster. I like that. Sitting there, on my wooden bench, I react. I don’t moan in ecstasy and I don’t close my eyes in pleasure. I don’t take it for granted and I don’t have a habit. I just enjoy my cigarette, no more and no less than it ever should have been. As it slowly converts itself into smoke and ashes I think to myself that most people probably wonder why an eighteen year old in this day and age would choose to take up smoking. At least I assume that is what the occasional passerby must be thinking when they see me sitting here on this wooden bench, for no other reason than to smoke the cigarette in my hand right now. I wonder what I would say if any one of them ever bothered to ask me. Because I want to, I would reply before standing, putting out my cigarette, and walking away. I look down and see that if I took another drag I would be smoking the filter. So I stand, put out my cigarette, and walk away. I walk away from the sunlight, from the two oak trees, and that wooden bench. I walk away with my fingers smelling like nicotine and that makes me smile because I know that I will sit at that wooden bench tomorrow to do the same exact thing. I know because that is what I did yesterday.
Dreaming shows you many hidden things in your mind; it opens you to alternative thinking…
What are friends? Are friends someone you can trust? What is trust? What is trusting? I've always asked myself this, but never really answered it... Friends are always something I have struggled with.
How does someone become your friend? Is it an unspoken thing? A mutual agreement? A strive to be popular? Or is it a feeling that everyone has?
Throughout my elementary years I had 6 friends. Brandon, Mattia, Isaac, Matthew, and 2 girls, Emily and Sydney. When I hit 5th grade, Isaac, who was my best friend, moved away.
I had one big problem, people who I saw as friends, weren't really friends. There were a lot of things said behind my back and people would use me as a fall guy.
Onto my dream...
My dreams as a kid, before I trained myself to lucidly dream, were, as far as I knew, real. And to be honest, for the most part I don't know what was a dream and what wasn't...
I remember the new "cool" game to play was ZAP... If you don't know what zap is it is pretty much you put a name on a hand and a time and they can't look at it until that time or they must ask them out. This also happened to be the time the term "gay" had hit my school, so I had a guys name written on my hand. So once I found out what it was I went and washed it all off. so as we went back in class everyone who fell to peer pressure which was pretty much everyone but me got in trouble.
Now I told the teacher I had it at one time but I washed it off at lunch because Iw anted to be honest.... She just said that was the right thing to do.... But everyone started laughing at my calling me gay and such because it was a guys name... So when asked who satarted it someone said ask the gay kid.... Well of course I got blamed with it so I was sent to the principal with not one, but two reasons to be in trouble... I woke... got ready for school, and as I was getting to school guess what I saw? A new friend, and its name was Zap.....
What is a true friend? Is it someone who will stand for you? Someone who is always there? Do you have a true friend? Do you trust that person? Now answer that again, do you really? Ask yourself a third time, how do you really know they are your friend?
P.S. Thank you all for all the support, I have really appreciated all the positive feedback on my work... Jarrod D.~
Imagine waiting for something or maybe it’s someone. Someone you look for in everyone you pass by but not someone that is easy to find. Everytime you pass by these people you look at their feet first, see what kind of shoes they have on. Destroyed black sneakers that are stained darker with red. Then you move up to their ankles, boney and sticking out like balls of compressed dirt, filled with worms and insects on the inside. Your gaze moves up to their knobby bruised knees that look like perhaps they’ve been painted on with watercolors. Next your eyes follow upwards to their thighs. You already know that they say it’s just their cat. Past their skirt you get up to their short-cut top, their ribs sticking out from their skin, looking like they’re trying to rip through to be free. You move your eyes up to their scarf wrapped around their neck hiding the bruises from their so-called lovers. Finally you reach up to their face. So sweet yet such a saddened look going across it. Pale white skin with tints of blue from the veins trying to shine through. Yellow and brown eyelids like dying sunflowers in a sad vase left behind and forgotten in a dark room with the blinds shut tight. Eyes that look like drops of golden honey or maybe even sap from a maple tree dripped into them, giving them the somewhat ‘life’ that they long to have. Their nose, glazed with hints of red around the openings from being wiped so many times to get away the excess ‘powders’ that make them feel again what they believe to be called joy and happiness. Lips redder than a blood moon that occurs only twice a year, peeling apart from the hours upon hours of picking and ripping apart with their teeth. Lastly your eyes wander up to their thinning hair which was once before very lucious and thick. Your eyes return to theirs as the passing is almost finished. You can see the worry in their eyes slowly go away a little bit as they find comfort in a stranger's eyes, yours. You smile and they return the expression back. You look back down at their mouth when they smile, their decaying teeth slightly showing right before their mouth goes right back shut to its distressed resting position. After you two pass all the way you start to wonder, do other people do the same? Do other people observe others as you do with everyone, looking for that person in someone else that you forever will long to be with?
I reached into the depth...
But could not withdraw Excalibur from the stone.
Yet I knew I was the one.
Why else my 'Grail Vision' in the sun?
The depths call me to reach further still.
And Mary's eyes bled.
Realizing for whom the tear's shed.
I know not what to do.
Vainity reaching to withdraw from the glue.
I stare blindly in the distance a 'bust' of my former self.
Passing the secret of excalibur being drawn by someone else.
And passing by the oracle of Ephesus, Medusa's eyes
She drew the sword stone in deep catching my contemplations of the mirror.
I could loose myself in her forever.
Secret Sweets. Stained Sheets. and shaking cold she wraps me in the golden fleece.
Covered in snakes, I melt into the secret skin.
Learning the name, I see my fathers before me distrought.
And see now the blindness of the Kingdom Oedipus wrought.
Sophoclese Tragedies and I am forever Oedipus.
Betrayed blessin' between whorish thighs and my camarades' lies.
Where is Helena these days?
Gone so long, I've forgotten her ways.
That's the trick-she sucks in your depth.
I am Horus, my seeds sewn in the west.
Innana's dead. I broke my maiden-named womb.
Long ago I allocated multiversic kingdoms for Osiris' perversion tombs.
And in the mysteries of deep misery.
I have witnessed my seed coming of age.
To lay thoughts like these out on a page.
Christ, Annubis, and I planned this on a street in Greece, A.D., B.C. I can't remember which.
I bare down frost-bitten from the North.
And my Christ of peace bore symbols from the East.
Our dog-eared down-home friend brought simpler lessons from an outdated South.
And we witnessed our births spread out over time.
Three wise men we were singing dark-hearted songs of a blackened Madonna we couldn't find.
So we relinquished ourselves to Daddy Darkest who knew best.
Redistributed seeds, we pushed ourselves to a static line beyond myth; where men like us no longer needed to exist.
Sweet Virgin, Return
I am old and worn thin.
Now, is your time to begin; A collection of stories your heart has borne, but you lay unblemished.
My daughter lay our bones to rest.
Cook them in your stew.
Reigns handover long overdue, but that's not the style you do.
Don't worry about ole Paw. Jimmy Crack corn.
May you be Princess Disarming Charming laced with meaning...
And I awake sleeping...
Beauty, I next to you.
Bridgett Faerie leapt from the flames with a pop and a fizzle
Delighting her elemental dad, Hellfire, wielder of the flame
Her mother gave her the power to make leaves dance
Her purpose not apparent yet, but she was magnificent.
Hair in shades of copper we did not know had been invented.
She stood on the tallest log and stared us down, Then she flew.
New faeries can hardly ever fly. We gasped.
"Forty-one years since I saw a first day flyer,"
one of the elderly brownies whispered.
Bridgett landed next to her.
"Hi!" she said. The whole council laughed.
"She is precocious," one of the faeries said.
Bridgett turned.
I saw her face for the first time;
oval with laughing caramel eyes.
Her nose was a tiny ski slope, a tiny lift at the end. She wrinkled it.
"Where are the leaves?" she demanded. "I want to get started."
Even Hellfire was astounded; he had six daughters but not this one
Until today. She would be a force to be honored and revered.
Her snotty sisters began to make fun of her,
pretending non-jealousy.
Hellfire gave them a look and there was instant silence.
"Are those my SISTERS?" Bridgett shrieked with delight.
She flew over and hugged every one of them. Then she flew away.
How could someone with such tiny feet be so assertive?
No fairy had ever started working on their birthday before today.
Oak tree leaves began floating down into the fire.
The fire popped and crackled faster and faster.
"I love this job!" Bridgett yelled from a branch forty feet up.
Hellfire looked frightened for the first time.
He had never had a daughter who was more like his wife.
His wife flew past him to help her daughter.
That rarely happens on birthing day either.
"A mini-me-of-Enthusiasm Faerie!" someone said.
Others cheered. Someone clapped Hellfire on the back.
"Now there are two of them, he said."Good luck!"
Bridgett's twin sister Brewit popped out of the flames next.
"Surprise!" She yelled. "There are two of us Daddy!"
Hellfire's mouth dropped open. He had felt outnumbered before.
But never suffered anything like this. Brewit gave him a big hug.
Then she flew up with to join her mother and her sister.
A wonderful day in the woods, one we have never forgotten
Although that was twenty-seven years ago.
The story has been told thousands of times.
And put into the imaginations of many. Their purpose: Joy.
My favorite hobby has always been scrapbooking
It's such a creative activity to do
For pictures and poems, I'm always looking
Forever scanning magazines through and through
I look for pictures of people and places
Some happy, some excited, some tired, some sad
I try to find real emotional traces
And whatever I like, to my scrapbooks I add
Over the years many books I have made
Scrapbooks of poetry old and new
Old web sites and online pictures I raid
Some of my scrapbooks are happy, some blue
Certainly, on this hobby you can say I'm hooked
There's nothing like it to keep me involved
No one would believe how hard I have looked
For rhymes and riddles that will never be resolved
I started this past time at our church
Each Wednesday all the ladies would look
Each one in her chair quietly perched
Consumed with finding the perfect hook
Everyone knows that you must create ideas
Inspiring and intriguing to reel in a person
Someone who will cast off all their fears
And stop to read your poem for a life lesson
I love scrapbooking, it's so rewarding
It brings childhood memories back to me
School days when with friends consorting
Times that were so happy and carefree
Often I reread through my many books
Books I've created by myself
Sometimes I find things that I've overlooked
Words that reveal how I once felt
Poems about family and friends so dear
Poems about God's creatures so lovely
Poems about Nature, Seasons, and Fears
Poems about things you can't buy with money
I'm planning on leaving my scrapbooks all
To my kids and grandkids after I'm done
When this life with its troubles are just a sad pall
And all they have left is the legacy I've begun
I never had many pictures or prose
Left me by parents or other relations
That's why I suppose I strive to compose
Scrapbooks to leave to younger generations
I want them to always remember me as
The Grandma that loved them so
I hope they realize that I had pizzazz
Even though I can't leave them much dough
The things that are important in life
Aren't always the things that are seen
When you live through all the sorrow and strife
You'll understand just what I mean
A love of poetry is what I will leave
For my children and grandchildren too
For what is a life and to what will you cleave
If great poetry is missing from you
By Julia Shaw
May 2020
I’m tired.
When I say that,
people ask me,
“How much sleep did you get?”
They tell me,
“Go to bed earlier then!”
I joke and say that I try,
or I lie and say about 6 hours.
But in reality,
I barely get 3,
if I’m lucky.
I’m physically tired,
but when I say “I’m tired”,
I don’t mean it in that way.
I mean I’m exhausted.
I don’t want to get up in the morning.
I want to sleep, but I can’t.
I have no motivation.
I have to fake my smile.
I have to hide my tears,
from the voices in my head.
I have to force myself to work,
so I don’t fail.
When people ask how I am doing,
I tell them “I’m fine!”
and give them the brightest smile I can muster.
I joke about my sadness,
as a way to cope.
I have no motivation.
I have no real happiness.
I play a part,
like my life is a show.
I put on a performance,
for the people to enjoy.
I play the dumb friend,
so I can keep being the “funny” one.
I smile at everyone, and treat everyone nicely,
so I can stay the people pleaser I have always been.
It’s tiring.
It’s ing exhausting.
I have no one to talk to.
I feel nothing.
I feel empty.
There is nothing in my heart.
I care so deeply,
but it hurts when I’m just used.
People like me because I’m kind,
but they don’t know how I really feel.
When someone likes me,
and I don’t reciprocate those feelings,
I pretend, and date them, so I don’t break their heart.
I know they may find out,
but I don’t want people hurt because of my actions.
I’ve hurt people though,
and I hold on to the guilt like a lifeline.
I take it out on myself.
As I drag the blade, and watch the red flow,
it feels so good, and it makes me forget,
for even just a moment,
the mental torment.
I’m so drained,
that I feel as though I’m just…
Numb.
Numb to the happiness.
Numb to the sadness.
Numb to the anger.
“Numb” to the pain.
I want to feel better,
but I don’t know how.
I have lost the one person,
who gave me the motivation.
I have no one.
I’m alone.
I write these poems,
to hopefully feel something.
Though it never works,
it’s the only thing I can do.
Only way I can talk,
only way I can let out the pain.
I need help,
to stop feeling this drained.
But I can’t get help,
and I never ask,
because I will always just be a burden
with my problems, and my thoughts.
I’ll always feel tired,
and nothing will ever change that,
no matter how hard I try.
“I am somebody’s child, and I need attention, I am somebody’s child and I need affection, I am somebody’s child and I need love and devotion”, she murmured as she walked through the door. She wasn’t sure where she was going when she left the house; she wasn’t sure about the next encounter, but she walked for five hours until she reaches the border.
The speed, at which she moved, left everyone confused but she was determined to make a point just to stay alive. She did not plan a journey she just wanted to live, and hang out with the daffodils but the trap was already set before they made the bet. She could sense it from within and so she had to learn to swim; with strength in her arms and strides in her feet, she made it through the dark before the break of dawn.
They searched everywhere for her, but they could not find her, the public became aware of it and they start to build a myth. Officer Jones devised a plan to begin the search mission he knew what he had up his sleeve, because he was so hard to please. He had laid the ground work to start digging up dirt, to catch the big fish and throw them back into the ditch, the climate was right and the alibi was riding high in the sky.
The search went on for days with no sight of her abducted in the bush or held captive by the brook; it was just one of those situations where you have to keep on top of things before the universe done you in.
The cheese, and the pie, the crown and the dye were just too reveling so they had to search for another meaning, and the sky was their only hope to keep sailing on the boat and so the narrative changed to give her all the blame.
Was it a crime torn area or someone lost their way and bumped into a criminal flattering in the sky that is a one-hundred-dollar question from a village miner who could not fit the pieces together for the director or the operator.
And so, the question remains, whose back was she trying to cover? My mind wander and wander and it didn’t look like a deal that turned sour, neither was it a set up by gate to discover something before it was too late. Everything seems to be in perfect harmony with the guitar, the piano, the band and the musical director.
The great Gatsby would have won the case if Tom Buchanan had not shot him in the pool over the death of Myrtle Wilson his darling wife. "I am somebody’s child," she screamed.