Long Spillage Poems
Long Spillage Poems. Below are the most popular long Spillage by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Spillage poems by poem length and keyword.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This poem was written in response to an assignment in my online poetry class: “Why does an ordinary life feel like a failure in today's world?”
Because Instagram is a museum,
and we are the unpaid janitors
of our own lives~
mopping up the spillage
of seemingly
unremarkable mornings.
Because someone’s balcony
is always brighter,
their coffee more artful,
their sadness more cinematic.
Our sadness arrives
in discount sweatpants,
unphotogenic.
Because the algorithm whispers:
You could be the main character,
but the plot demands
a montage, a twist,
a soundtrack swelling
as you jog toward redemption.
You are still tying your shoes.
Because the word ordinary
has been hijacked and laundered
into something suspicious~
like a plain envelope
in an age of glitter bombs.
Because we forget
how the spine of a day
is built from quiet commas,
not exclamation marks.
How the heart keeps
its most sacred receipts
in the pocket of an old coat~
a ticket stub,
a note that says come home soon,
the way the light looked
when it was enough.
Italics, seek to emphasize.
Sacrifice, thy spill.
Seer and prophet, inner eyes.
Oracle, see nil.
Happiness, thy fate is doom.
Engraved on a tomb.
Belladonna, thy full bloom.
Heart of mine? No room...
Wind, carry the sparks of fire.
Cicadas, shriek loud.
Blessed is a dark desire?
Humble thus the proud.
Union of tomorrow?
It's got to start today.
Soil, what is thy sorrow?
Whene'er I blow away.
Castle weighted down with ice?
Well, 'twill stop a siege.
Penury, plight, poison, price.
Light a match, my liege.
Wicker man, thy nick'ring mare.
Fingernails to pare.
Death arises from despair?
Bet I'll see you there.
Hair beneath a river's flow?
Warrior, you slipped.
Gold: the reason all men go!
Quahog, how you quipped!
Tympani, train thy temper.
Tomorrow, tamarisk.
Tale and talent, take the tour.
Time the torrent brisk...
Between the lines of Poetry Soup
Lies partly hidden the real scoop
Poets with emotion’s overflow
Spillage of which, they do not know
Leaks between lines of what they write
Discerning souls, bring them to light
Fellow poets with this "disease"
Wanting to love, wanting to please
Can read between the lines so fair
And see love affairs written there
And secret longings all scream out
Though unstated, there is no doubt
Which poet is in love with whom
And which affair will surely bloom
Clear to read Love’s Richter scale
The in between codes, never fail
Poems present and poems past
Love or friendship, now which will last?
Terms of endearment, every one
Is a love song that can't be sung
Between the lines, you can’t deny
Affairs of heart are flying high
For we are poets one and all
Programmed, it seems, in love to fall…
With those whose words can so ignite
Who touch our souls with sheer delight
Chorus:
Between the lines
Between the lines
The love is there
Between the lines
The long standing and hidden pain
The hints of love that's gone insane
Between the lines
Between the lines
YOUR love is there
Between the lines.
Eileen Manassain
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The sky splits open at dusk,
spilling its ink across the horizon~
Why not walk barefoot into the spillage?
The door is agape,
the dog dreams of a wider yard~
Why not let the wind rearrange the furniture?
The train station at midnight
is a mouth full of swallowed departures~
Why not whisper your name to the tracks?
The moon is just a rock
with better lighting~
Why not throw it at the dark?
The coffee grows cold
while you debate the weight of its bitterness~
Why not drink it anyway?
The sky is a crumpled receipt;
the trees are shaking loose their coins~
Why not pocket the afternoon?
The door is ajar, the train is leaving,
your name is half-formed on someone’s lips~
Why not answer?
The world is a question
posed in a language you’ll never decipher~
Why not answer in tongues of your own?
Why does the sky refuse to explain its blue?
Why does the ant carry twice its weight without complaint?
Why does the river bend but never asks permission?
Why does a child draw a door on the wall and waits?
Why does a dog dig up bones it didn’t bury?
Why not touch the stove just to feel the burn?
Why not let the unanswered questions linger?
The world is a question you refuse to ask,
a dare you pretend not to hear.
Why not? Why not? Why not?
we started together,
you and i.
we grew as we
wandered this earth,
the smell of soil permeated our senses.
we stayed so close
our roots began to bond,
the origin of our creation
became a union, an abomination.
given the choice
between their doctrines,
and their children,
they chose the scripture.
instructions
on how to raise
saplings and sinners like us.
over time,
our roots were separated
into divisions.
they hoped
that the sunders
would prevent our sins.
as if grafting our stems
in new locations
would be a solvent.
but we are of a long line,
an adaptive family tree,
not connected by dna
but a community nonetheless.
we learned from our lineage
to forge our own paths
unafraid of the trek ahead.
despite the watering,
the spillage onto our new leaves as
an attempt to squander our strength,
we persevere.
but this drowning
continues
and digs
us
deeper
into
the
ground.
soon,
we're
six
feet
below
surface.
the leaves and the buds
have erroded,
diminished
into a future fertility
for the sediment.
their attempt
to drown us out
with a downpour
has succeeded,
the moisture turned to rot.
but my dear,
no matter where you
may rest now,
i know that in the end,
our bones will be laid the same,
and our remains will one day
grow again to full bloom.
Uncomplicated me
I thought I was colour blind
free thinking and kind
with an evolved mind
Loving and accepting
of the ones I find
Yet my blindness
Is that of privilege
I'm just a visitor
in the Global village
From my narrow thin mind
there is too much spillage
Although so many
are forced from their homes
My life seems carefree
I am deaf to the groans
Brown women wearing veils
that can't protect them from stones
I live in a white washed place
No "Freedom Marches"
for men of a different race
Yet, if I look back and trace
there are darker stories to face
We all took part in shameful things
Yes, we share in the disgrace.
Highways of tears
Rivers of shame
There's always
someone else to blame
Residential schools
Each child got a new name
They were forced to forget
the place from where they came
Prisons filled
with black and red skinned men
They can't forget
this now or that then
Promises and promises
but who how and when
Or will their children
have to live it all over again
So yes
No longer colour blind
With the opening of my mind
I let colour seep in
Starting somewhere different
today I begin
Because I know
it shouldn't be
just the privileged who win!
Leaping over nettle bushes,to clear becks and streams
picking fruit from orchid trees, children in our element and dreams.
Building dens in rainy woods,our warmth and shelter clear
raindrops dripping from oak leafs,like a shedding tear.
Swaying cornfields upon the old farmhouse,animals grazing
an overall panoramic view, outback Eston Hills so amazing.
The summertime offers such, an array of beautiful sights
from the hares dancing the fields,to kingfishers in flight.
North sea a mere stone throw,from the pastures that i dwell
calm waters see children building sandcastles,boats tossed violently when it does swell.
Fishermen unload their catch,seagulls lurking for a feed
the high pitch cry babylike,scraps for the need.
Captain Cooks` birthplace, named Great Ayton Village
a very proud community,sporting a collection of spillage.
Of his treasures and necessisitys,held in Stewart Park Museum.
Attracting visitors far and wide,to get a chance to see them.
In wintertime when the cold and snow does test
hanging out the nut nets,for the robin red breast.
Also the animals, so vulnerable alike and rare
building pole houses, for their warmth and care.
Paul beadnall.
Sponsor Francine Roberts
Contest Name a Nature Tale.
7/10/11.
Between the lines of Poetry Soup
Lies partly hidden the real scoop
Poets with emotion’s overflow
Spillage of which, they do not know
Leaks between lines of what they write
Discerning souls, bring them to light
Fellow poets with the same disease
Wanting to love, wanting to please
Can read between the lines so fair
And see love affairs recorded there
And secrets longings all scream out
Though unstated, there is no doubt
Which poet is in love with whom
Which affair is destined to bloom
Clear to read Love’s Richter scale
The in between codes, never fail
Poems present and poems past
Love or friendship, which will last?
Terms of endearment, every one
Is a love song that can not be sung
Between the lines, you can’t deny
Is where love affairs are flying high
For we are poets one and all
Programmed, it seems, in love to fall…
With people whose words do ignite
Who caress the soul with sheer delight
Chorus:
Between the lines
Between the lines
The love is there
Between the lines
The long standing and hidden pain
The hints of a love gone insane
Between the lines
Between the lines
YOUR love is there
Between the lines.
Eileen Manassian Ghali
Inside our living room, there stood a table.
Three legs it had; its round top was unique.
Mom kept it in the corner, and she’d say
so proudly that the table was antique.
Well polished, it had a vase atop it,
and flawless was its base, legs widely splayed.
One day, with Mom away, we moved it to
another room. A few games we then played.
Our chairs fit well round that three-legged table
as we played our Yahtzee and Crazy Eights.
A lovely afternoon we spent, just I
with two of my dear sisters as my mates.
One sister (I can’t recall which one now)
brought drinks to us, and just as Mom walked in,
I spilled my drink! Mom became hysteric
as if I had committed some great sin!
She yanked us off our chairs and quickly wiped
the spillage – yelling at us the whole time.
The table got put back into its corner,
and we were punished for our little crime.
The vase was put back on the table’s top,
and we three got no soup that night to sup.
Mom’s in a nursing home now; we’ve all grown.
I wonder where that table ended up!
We came upon a clearing
In the scattering of the town
Bomb damage as scenery
In this place called Caen
The village square we reach
Shell casings pepper the ground
Blood and spillage flows
War is all around
In the distance we hear
That the enemy are retreating
The losses our heroes
In this theatre of beating
The local school
Which had seen the worst
A tribute exists
Of the fallen first
In the debris there stands
His weapon of war
Upon it sits
The helmet he wore
This patriot
Of the land of the free
The Stars and Stripes
He will no longer see
As we continued our quest
To free Europe and beyond
So many solitary helmets
Will unify our bond
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/war-4.php